


The Tsar's Hat

by Sonnet23



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A bit of drama, Action/Adventure, Attempt at Humor, Discorporation (Good Omens), Drinking, Eden!verse, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Inspired by Fanfiction, Lots of drinking, Russia, Temporary Character Death, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-16 18:37:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21275855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonnet23/pseuds/Sonnet23
Summary: Crowley meets Aziraphale in Moscow in 1571, and together they find a way “to escape their unhappy reality.” (A Memory of Eden. Chapter 10.)





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImprobableDreams900](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Шапка Царя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276092) by [Sonnet23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonnet23/pseuds/Sonnet23)
  * Inspired by [A Memory of Eden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534309) by [ImprobableDreams900](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900). 

> This fanfic is a little prequel to Eden!verse by ImprobableDreams900. However, it can be read as a standalone just as well. 
> 
> This fic wouldn’t have happened without ImprobableDreams900. Not only did she let me run around inside her universe and give me a prompt for this fic (“The tsar’s hat would never be the same again”, see Chapter 10 of "A Memory of Eden"), but she also beta-read this fic (twice!) and did a huge amount of work on fixing my grammar and pointing out the bits that needed changes. I don’t have enough words to express how grateful I am – both for this whole experience and for your help! It’s a huge honour for me. 
> 
> Dear readers,  
This story is independent, and you don’t need to know the events of the Eden!verse fics to understand it. But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t read Eden!verse. If you haven’t done it yet – I strongly recommend you read it! It’s an amazing world, and you’ll absolutely fall in love with it. Also, if you have read Eden!verse or at least A Memory of Eden, look for the references and foreshadowing in this fic – there are some, scattered around. I wonder if you will be able to notice all of them. ;)
> 
> P.S. The first chapter should probably be rated 'M' because of the violence.

_Moscow, 1571_

When Crowley saw the palace, he was struck by how unusual it was, just as he had been when he had first laid eyes on it a year and a half ago. He had never seen anything like it before – neither on the Earth nor Below. And not even Above. It wasn’t that the building was more beautiful than all the wonders of architecture the demon had come across in six millennia; it was just… different.

As soon as the ambassador’s retinue went through the Spassky Gates to the sound of music and found themselves surrounded by the walls of the Kremlin, Crowley was overwhelmed by a wild flood of joyful life that rushed towards him like a team of horses – horses whose reins had slipped from the hands of some dashing but lazy coachman. 

The square was a patchwork of market stalls. Here and there, onion domes sprouted up above the roofline, and monastery walls grew like winding roots in all directions. In some cases, Crowley had difficulty telling the monastic buildings from the chambers of noblemen, or _boyars_ – as they were called here. People, dressed in their best clothes, hurried outside to look at the ambassador’s procession, but the guards didn’t let them approach. He saw a young woman in the crowd wearing a kerchief of the same bright colours as the tower next to her. Not far away, a boy was trying to feed the birds painted on the shutters of his house. And then there were gardens – gardens that lined the white walls and high front porches, gardens that stretched their green paws over the fences. All of it made Crowley dizzy with a strange feeling that was like deep yearning and elation at the same time. Every way he looked, his eye was caught by one building, slowly moved to another, and travelled further, unable to stop. It was like going through some strange labyrinth, making a full circle but going out through absolutely different gates. 

And just like the previous time he was here, Crowley was surprised to notice some sort of underlying order amongst all that multicoloured chaos. There was a strange kind of logic to the city that couldn’t be seen with the eyes – only felt in the gut.

And the tsar’s palace was the centre of that world. Here, the laws of this city and this whole huge country were concentrated in one building.

The thick but plain white walls seemed to be telling all who gazed upon them about the strength and the firmness of the people living in this country, the three stairs leading up to the palace’s heavy oak doors symbolising the obstacles that had to be faced before understanding the mysterious Russian soul.

But when they got inside…

Vaulted ceilings reminded him of tree canopies in an autumn forest, and the murals were even brighter than leaves. One of them had a scene depicting the Garden of Eden he hadn’t noticed on his previous trip. Crowley was almost left behind by the rest of the delegation, looking up and trying to find himself on the painting.

He hurried to rejoin the delegation, clustered by the doors. The grey-bearded old men sitting on the benches along the walls of the corridor cast him reproachful looks. When Thomas Randolph, the main ambassador, and his retinue entered the throne hall, the old men stood up and took off their hats that were higher than the tented roofs of the local churches.

Crowley shivered. Just as he had a year and a half ago, he came to a halt in front of the tsar’s throne, which dominated the centre of the vast reception hall. But the magnificence of the surroundings, the splendour of the interiors and the approaching hour of the feast didn’t seem as appealing to him as they had the previous time. The music, which had been filling the air ever since they had entered the city, stopped at last, and it suddenly became very quiet.

To either side of the throne stood two guards in white clothes holding short silver poleaxes on their shoulders. To the right of the throne, resting on a cushion atop a plinth, there lay an orb – a massive golden sphere, symbolizing the monarch’s power. And on a bench not far away stood something like a gilded basin, covered with a towel. Crowley frowned. From his last visit, he knew that after greeting the ambassadors the tsar always washed his hands as if he’d just touched something filthy and disgusting.

Finally, Crowley looked up at the man on the throne.

The formidable figure of the tsar was leaning forward a bit in his throne, the posture making him look paradoxically both frailer and more dangerous at the same time, like a predator that was always hungry and ready to leap. Ivan’s large, narrowed eyes scrutinised every millimetre of the surrounding space, every line on the faces of those assembled. His thick eyebrows were drawn together so that they almost formed one line, broken in the middle. His auburn beard was also thick and dark, unlike his head, which was not only shaven but also bare. His hat, richly decorated with pearls and precious stones like the rest of his clothes, lay on a nearby bench.

While Crowley continued to take in the tsar, who hadn’t really changed much since his last visit – except maybe his gaze had become even darker and more nervous – the ceremony of gift-giving began.

Crowley was worried about this part most of all. The tradition was that each member of the ambassador’s retinue had to approach the tsar and bring him a gift. And Crowley didn’t want to give Ivan a chance to recognise him. He knew that, logically, it was impossible; since the last time he had walked the streets of Moscow he had changed his appearance, title and occupation. A year and a half ago he’d paid the famous English traveller Anthony Jenkinson to let Crowley make this journey to Russia in his place. As Jenkinson, Crowley had brought back to England a lot of important information about this land, as well as an extremely important private message from the Russian Tsar to the English Queen. 

This time Crowley didn’t come here as a major ambassador; instead, he was just a humble member of the retinue of Thomas Randolph. His mission was to be carried out subtly and stealthily.

“Count Anthony Crowley with a gift – Order of the Garter, presented by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.”

‘Count’ Anthony Crowley smirked inwardly at his own joke; historians would rack their brains for centuries trying to figure out how an “order of the garter” ended up in the Russian treasury – especially such a weird pendant, with a depiction of a three-headed serpent on it.

Crowley had asked a German Protestant artist to make one head male, one female, and one serpentine – he had described the three of his most preferable forms as well as he could. The serpent had ended up looking more like a griffin, but that was insignificant. When the artist had asked what the meaning of this design was, Crowley had made up some nonsense about it being a caricature of the Catholic Church slain by Saint George. The German was delighted and asked Crowley if he had any special requests about George’s appearance. So Crowley, very pleased with himself, had demanded some angelic golden curls for his adversary.

Crowley bowed ceremoniously, approached the tsar’s graciously offered hand, and opened the lid of the box containing the fake order. Ivan narrowed his eyes in disdain at the precious pendant, and then returned his gaze to Crowley, who stood there in a half-bow, his own eyes still downcast. The tsar waved his hand to a secretary, and he hurriedly took the box from Crowley. The demon was already going to retreat without straightening his back when Ivan suddenly broke the solemn silence.

“Is this the last one?”

“This is, my lord,” the boyar in charge of the ceremony answered. He was standing next to the table, which was now piled with gifts.

“What’s your name again? Anton..?” the Tsar addressed Crowley directly. The demon almost replied before remembering that he had to fake confusion. He looked around. An interpreter immediately appeared from the crowd of court nobility. Crowley didn’t need his service at all but was quite willing to watch his torments; diplomatic conversations were not easy to translate when it came to Ivan.

“Our great tsar desires to hear your name,” the interpreter told Crowley. The demon finally had to face the tsar. Not for the first time, it amazed him that an absolutely earthly creature could have such a powerful, overwhelming aura. Besides, Crowley could place it neither as infernal nor as ethereal; it was the energy of chaos that was beyond its own control.

“Count Anthony Crowley, my lord,” the demon introduced himself.

“Well, tell me, Anton Krolik, where has that envoy with the same name as yours, Anton Jankin, disappeared? Huh? More than a year has passed since we sent him with an important errand to your queen, and after that, he dropped off the face of the earth. Can it be that he despises our lands? Or has he been plotting against us, and that’s why he doesn’t show his heathen face here? Knows that he has a bad conscience, doesn’t he?”

The interpreter cleared his throat nervously and translated:

“The great tsar is interested if there is any news about your fellow countryman, ambassador Anthony Jenkinson, who visited the Moscow land nearly two years ago and received a commission of greatest significance from the tsar.”

“As far as I know, my lord, Mr Jenkinson had many commissions. A humble servant of the Queen, like myself, can’t possibly know which one you’re referring to. Please, be so kind and clarify it, or address your question to someone better informed than myself.”

The interpreter translated Crowley’s words with a little too much courtesy, and the demon couldn’t help but smirk as he looked the tsar right in the eye.

He must have understood that Crowley knew everything. But he would never ask him directly.

Ivan’s narrow, almost Eastern eyes squinted even further, and their hard glare nailed Crowley to the spot like a heavy anchor. It felt as if the tsar, who suspected everyone around him of practically everything, saw straight through Crowley to his worst parts – the things that even the demon didn’t like being reminded of. It was then that Crowley thought Ivan might have recognised him, and he barely stopped himself from looking around for a mirror to check if he had really made his eyes brown instead of grey this time. 

They had stared at each other for some time, and then Crowley, to his greatest surprise, felt an irresistible need to blink.

_How did that happen?_

Even Aziraphale wasn’t able to win in a staring contest with him, let alone some mortal ruler of barbarians… Maybe the spell was to blame, the one Crowley used to cover his serpentine eyes to make them look human. Or maybe, when Crowley was looking at the tsar whom his people called _Terrible_, it was that he saw all those cruelties that Ivan had already done and was capable of doing in future. In any case, that gaze made him feel uneasy.

Finally, the tsar waved his hand, and Crowley, bowing, returned to the rest of Randolph’s retinue.

He was relieved when the official ceremony finally ended, and everyone was invited to the dining room where the tables were laid for the great feast.

***

The feast began – rich and noisy, almost frightening in its abundance. Crowley saw that his so-called “fellow countrymen” barely touched the food, hitting the drinks instead. All that meat and pastry was too heavy and fatty for them. It was especially obvious when Crowley looked at greasy fingers and beards of the Russian noblemen. Poor Randolph sitting two persons away from him was staring at the liver filling of his pie, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know what the mud-coloured substance was made of. 

Crowley didn’t feel much like eating either, not while the Tsar’s suspicious black eyes seemed to be boring directly into his very soul. Ivan was sitting opposite Randolph and studying the ambassadors one by one.

“Well, well, it looks like instead of one Anton they’ve sent us another?” Ivan sneered, turning to Crowley, who was bringing a cup to his lips. “Her Majesty, it appears, says _Come on_ and here comes Anton, but the one she sends to us understands less than an ass.”

“I dare say you’re wrong, my lord,” Crowley answered in Russian, causing the interpreter to choke on his piece of mutton.

Ivan didn’t blink an eye.

“Is that so?”

“I never told you I didn’t know _what_ _business_ you were asking me about. I told you I didn’t know _which_ business you were asking me about.”

Randolph shot him a puzzled glance, probably wondering why Crowley had started that conversation and if he even knew what he was doing. But Crowley was wearing a pleasant smile, as if he wasn’t talking about business at all.

“I suspect, my lord, that you would prefer to hear some of the answers to those questions in private. Am I right?”

“Maybe you are.” Ivan frowned, studying Crowley’s face with that strange gaze that he had already noticed during the ceremony. “Who are you? I think I’ve met you before, but I can’t remember you.”

“Oh, no, Your Highness. These feet had never before tread the streets of Moscow. This nose has never breathed in this air.”

_And I wish it wasn’t breathing it now either_, Crowley thought, cursing the stuffy hall, the roast meat and the boyars’ fur coats, which they never took off in spite of the spring warmth. That was Russian etiquette for you.

“I don’t know about feet and nose, but I have seen your _eyes_ before, I’m sure about that, Antoshka. Fyodor,” he addressed to his younger son, who was sitting next to him. “Go and tell Malyuta to prepare everything in Kitay-gorod.”

For some reason, Fyodor paled a little, but he stood up, bowed and left. And the tsar nodded to Crowley to come and take his place.

Crowley stood up obligingly, feeling as tense as a spring but trying not to show it. He walked around the table and sat next to Ivan. As he did so, the servants placed the last dish — a bowl of fish broth — in front of each diner. Curious, Crowley glanced around, wondering how the ambassadors would deal with the lack of spoons – or any other cutlery – on the table.

Randolph, who knew the customs of Moscow boyars well, had brought a spoon with him. The rest of the guests mostly just acted as if they didn’t see the food in front of them.

“Well, Your Highness,” Crowley said quietly, turning to Ivan and narrowing his eyes a bit as if pondering how to begin. “What exactly are you interested in? I think all those financial troubles can be discussed with Thomas much more successfully – he can deal with such things. But as for the other commissions, I wouldn’t recommend you ask him; the only response you’d get would be some nonsense and polite mumbling. But _I_’ll be honest with you. Her Royal Majesty quite likes her title of the _Virgin Queen_, and she is not willing to part with it any time soon, even for the crown of the Russian Kingdom.”

“What!?” A heavy fist fell on the oaken table, and the wine spilt out of the cups, leaving bloody stains on the tablecloth. “The hell she is getting the crown! How dare she, a base-born peasant, turn her nose up at our grace! And as if we believe that she really has never been with a man! Is she what, Virgin Mary? God forgive me...” The tsar took a breath and marked himself with a sign of the cross, making Crowley shy away. 

“Easssy, my lord, easssy,” hissed Crowley, noticing that they had drawn the attention of everyone else at the table. He performed a simple miracle, and the boyars around them became suddenly very interested in the contents of their bowls. “I tell you what – in all honesty, why do you need Elizabeth? There’s neither beauty nor youth left in her, she’s got crowds of enemies and no money. Conspiracies, intense wars – as if you didn’t have plenty of those in your own land. And it’s not only the discord _inside_ the country; they are about to start a fight with Spain, and you would find yourself involved in other people’s war… So, you may even consider it Go—Fate’s will.”

Ivan thought for a moment. Rage was clearly still boiling inside him, making his chest heave and his nostrils flutter angrily, but Crowley knew that the tsar’s thoughts were already running along the track he had created.

“As for your second commission,” Crowley went on. “Please, don’t kill the messenger; I’m just telling you what was said during the conversation. Her Majesty has decided that if your subjects get bored of their old tyrant and find themselves a new one, then England will give you asylum. But they won’t support you financially, as their treasury is empty.”

“You’re lying, you bastard!” Ivan snapped and was about to grab Crowley by the collar, but missed for some inexplicable reason.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but it’s the most honest truth I’m telling you. And if you don’t believe me, write a letter to Her Majesty and send it with the Embassy.”

“I will! Oh, I will write such a letter, that you, Antoshka, shall regret your advice…”

“Everything to please Your Majesty. But think about it; there’s nothing bad in it. You have the money, and if you’re so very worried, just send half of your treasury across the seas, so that it would wait for you in England, ready and untouched. Besides, the Queen needs asylum as badly as you do. Offer her the same conditions and see where the wind will blow.”

Ivan the Terrible thought about that for a moment and then pinned Crowley with his glare again.

“Now, you’re smart, Antoshka. It’s a shame you’re such a scoundrel – serving two masters at a time. Do you know, what I would do if you were mine? I have a special way to trreat trrraitors – a cauldron of ice and a cauldron of boiling water; I’d put you there until your skin comes off like a stocking.”

Hypnotised by the horrifying look of the black eyes, Crowley was unable to swallow for several seconds. If even _he_ felt uneasy close to this man, he could only imagine what it must be like for Ivan’s poor servants.

Then demon shook the spell off. Throughout his long life, Crowley had often been discorporated in the most unpleasant ways, and it hadn’t always been angels and other demons behind it. But since then he had learnt to be careful. It would take something more serious than a capricious tyrant to send him to Hell.

At that very moment, the doors swung open, and Malyuta Skuratov appeared on the doorstep. Crowley knew he was one of the tsar’s _oprichniks_ – his own special guards, whose job was to look for conspiracies against the state. They wore dog’s heads and brooms on their saddles, symbolising that they gnawed out treason and swept it out. Their methods were as horrifying as their looks. And Malyuta was the cruelest of them all. And the tsar’s favourite as well.

After returning from his previous journey to Russia, Crowley had spent four pages in his report describing Malyuta’s work. However, unlike his other texts written at the time, that one was put neither on Her Majesty’s table nor on the publisher’s desk. That report went straight to Beelzebub’s office. Crowley got two commendations; one for providing the Torture Department with new methods, and one for suggesting to use them on those that had invented them in the first place. At that moment he had almost liked his job.

Malyuta bowed. Crowley noticed that he somehow managed to bow only before the tsar, arrogantly paying no attention to the other people in the hall.

“Speak, Malyuta.” Ivan generously waved his hand.

“Your Highness, the square is ready.”

The oprichnik’s voice was hoarse and low, but everyone around the table heard it.

“Get our palanquin ready. Come, Antoshka, I’ll show you how we execute those who act against the tsar and our Lord in Heaven. And take the ambassador with you; I’ll need to talk to him later.”

As soon as the tsar stood up, all the boyars jumped to their feet, leaving their food unfinished, hiding the spoons and wiping at their moustaches. There was a tense silence in the hall, but it was broken the next moment by the voice of the clerk.

“His Majesty is willing to judge the conspirator, the vile lackey Vanka Viskovaty and other Moscow traitors, and thus orders his servants and guests to come this very minute to Kitay-gorod Square.”

Crowley almost groaned. He’d known what would be waiting for him in the court of Ivan the Terrible; he had just hoped that it wouldn’t begin straight after dinner.

***

The square was full of people. Crowley wondered if there were enough of them to fill the Coliseum but threw this thought away at once. People also went to the Coliseum looking for spectacles of blood, but at least there often was an element of a game too – gladiators and even poor Christian martyrs had a chance to survive and become heroes, if only for a while… But here everything always ended in the same way. It was more like the Inquisition.

From the elevated platform where the tsar sat with his closest advisors and honoured guests, Crowley could see perfectly well the wooden scaffold in the centre of the square. In the middle of it stood a wooden post. Around it, there were other posts and bonfires with cauldrons hanging above them.

A man was brought to the scaffold. He was rather elderly and seemed to have spent many days in prison. The guards had to hold him upright. The herald standing near the tsar’s and ambassadors’ seats started to read the sentence.

“The former head of the Foreign Regiment, clerk Ivan Viskovaty, is charged with treason against the tsar of Moscow and of All Russia Ioannes. He’s accused of vile intention to yield Novgorod to the Polish, of conspiring with King Sigismund and the Turkish Sultan, and of writing letters to the Khan of Crimea calling him to ruin Sacred Russ. For all these crimes and others that can’t be counted, he is sentenced to death by cutting into pieces.”

At that moment, the tsar raised his hand and said something to the speaker.

“However, if he admits his crimes and begs our tsar and people to pardon him, he will be forgiven and sent to a convent where he will live forever.”

Ivan nodded slowly. Crowley saw that his eyes never left the convict. For a moment, the latter also looked the tsar right in the eye, as if challenging him to kill his once-loyal servant.

Finally, Viskovaty looked away and turned to the square with some kind of grim mockery. The crowd quieted in anticipation. Then he spat on the floor in the direction of the tsar’s throne and said:

“Curse you, bloodsuckers, curse you and your tsar!”

All at once, the noise of the crowd seemed to have broken the dam; cries, curses, and tears – everything rushed to the scaffold at once. And under this hellish accompaniment the executioners grabbed Viskovaty and tied him to the post.

Crowley started when he heard a quiet voice next to him, more audible than all the noises around:

“And I had loved him as much as I love myself,” Ivan said sorrowfully. “And look how he repaid me…”

Crowley was too shocked to answer.

Malyuta ascended the scaffold. He had a large, slightly crooked knife in his hand. He walked around the post like a butcher choosing which piece it was better to cut. Finally, he raised the blade slowly to Viscovaty’s face – the tip hovered for a moment near his eye – and then, with one elegant movement, he cut off the convict’s left ear.

A horrible scream pierced the air, and as an answer to it dogs barked and someone’s baby started to wail.

As soon as Malyuta stepped back, another oprichnik approached the convict. This one took out a curved sabre and cut a strip of skin from Viscovaty’s shoulder to his elbow. Blood flowed onto the wooden floor.

“Good boy, Petrushka, he knows his job! Such a wound brings much pain, but a slow death,” Ivan said, smiling grimly.

The next executioner took the convict’s eye. The other one – his right hand.

This continued until a tall gloomy man went up the stairs to the scaffold and approached the body of the former clerk that now resembled a corpse ruined by scavengers. He drew the tip of his blade across Viscovaty’s stomach, and it was then that the tortured man suddenly spasmed forward, pushing the knife deeper.

Viscovaty gasped weakly and died.

At this moment there came a horrible noise of a staff knocking on the wooden floor, and Ivan’s thunderous voice cried:

“Treason!”

All heads turned to the tsar. He sprang to his feet and pointed at the oprichnik with his staff.

“Ivan Reutov, you traitor! You thought you could trick the tsar of Moscow and all our honest people!? You thought you could save Ivashka from torture, and bring him a merciful and quick death? Huh? Confess, you, wretched man, did you make that blow on purpose?”

“I did no such thing, my lord,” the oprichnik said quietly. “God knows, Ivashka did it himself – he pushed himself onto my knife.”

“You’re lying, bastard! Malyuta, seize this villain! Shackle him! Later we shall decide what punishment such crime deserves.”

Reutov was taken away by the guards. He tried to object, but no one listened to him. He was followed by sympathetic gazes of some people from the crowd and by angry insults of others, but mostly the onlookers, accustomed to such events, just waited for the show to go on.

Crowley, stunned by the incident, was watching it only with his eyes; the rest of his body seemed to have gone completely numb.

“Traitors are everywhere, everyone is plotting… no one can be trusted, even the most… the most…”

The voice got Crowley out of stupor at last. He looked up at the tsar in amazement.

“But you can’t be sure that he did that on purpose,” he said hoarsely. “And even if he did, why does it necessarily have to be just to spite you? Maybe he simply felt sorry for the poor bugger?”

“Sorry?! _Sorry?_” Ivan hissed, fire dancing in his eyes. “What kind of land is this where traitors and evil foes should be pitied? And who will pity _me_? I trusted Ivashka more than anyone in Russia. I let him do work on my behalf. I was never afraid to eat or drink with him without making servants taste the food first. And all he wanted was to gain my trust so that he could rise, and after that he threw everything to the pagan khans. Tell me, wasn’t _he_ sorry to step with dirty boots on my heart that had been open for him? Huh?”

_Crowley_ was sorry that he had opened his mouth. People were already staring at them.

But at that moment, new conspirators were brought to the scaffold. And after reading aloud their crimes, the executioners took each one to a boiling cauldron…

When the smell of boiled meat filled the square, Crowley decided that it was time to make his exit, and promptly fainted.

***

It was an excellent way to leave the site of the execution without offending the host of the event. Besides, it gave Randolph and the other unwilling members of the audience a reason to escape too. _He’ll owe me_, Crowley thought, pleased with himself, as he listened to Thomas fussing around and giving orders to carry Crowley out of the crowd into the fresh air and to find him a doctor.

“He just needs some water,” somebody said.

“Nothing special…”

“And what if it’s a stroke? What are we going to tell their Queen? Like, sorry, your envoy has kicked off?”

“There’s a plague house nearby, maybe take him there? That monk works real miracles.”

“Are you mad? Take an ambassador to a plague house?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, thank you so much, I’m already feeling better.” Crowley disentangled himself from the hands of worried guards and staggered to his feet. When he looked around, he saw that they’d left the square behind, but even here, in the quiet alleys, he could still smell the smoke of the fires.

After convincing the guards that he didn’t need help, thank you very much, Crowley was finally left alone, so he headed up the street as quickly as possible.

The demon needed a drink, urgently.

***

Aziraphale leaned wearily with one hand upon a wooden chest beside the bed, keeping his other hand on the patient’s heart. The boy groaned weakly, but his breathing finally steadied. 

Daria was arguing with someone in the _mudroom_. Her angry voice could be heard even here. Aziraphale hoped that she would at least hold them off long enough for him to finish curing the lad. With one desperate effort, he pulled out the rest of the magic which his instinct for self-preservation had hidden deep inside his being and poured all of it into his patient.

The hand leaning onto the chest trembled and gave out immediately. Aziraphale almost fell face down, but at the very last moment managed to hold himself, and sat back on the chair.

He was only half-conscious when Daria entered the room. She paused on the doorstep, sighed and clicked her tongue.

“My, my,” the old woman muttered. She came up to the boy on the bed and put her palm on his forehead. Then she did the same to Aziraphale and said again: “My, my.”

“Daria?” the angel mumbled weakly. “Who wa… who was there?”

“Shh, hush, Zirochka, don’t you worry, take a rest. Those heathen tyrants came after you again, ducky. Sure thing, I drove them away, cursed devils. Scared them with plague, told them you were also taken by it, so they were out like a streak.”

“Good job, Daria.”

“My dear, should you, maybe lie down for a while? Eh? What do you say, ducky? It’s a mystery how you’re still going on… How can you have so little mercy to yourself! Don’t I know where you take power to cure these people?” She nodded at the boy. “What, is he alright?”

“He is…”

“Well, that’s enough for today. Come, come, I’ll help you to the bed.”

She let him lean on her shoulder and dragged rather than led him to the room next door, where there was some straw covered with cloth. Aziraphale fell on the “bed” wincing; the room was spinning in front of his eyes.

Daria clicked her tongue again and went out to prepare her herbs and pray to her old gods. In her world, Perun and Sun-god, Baba Yaga and House spirit somehow lived together with Jesus Christ and Mother Mary, angels and demons.

Aziraphale had tried to teach her, of course. He had read the Bible to her and even helped her to learn the letters so that she could read prayers herself. He had convinced her that they were more helpful for the patients. And the sick people had really got better while Daria was reading. That was back when Daria hadn’t yet known that Aziraphale could heal people by laying on his hands. She had learnt about it several days later, after having peeked at the so-called monk through a keyhole. On that very day during the dinner, the expensive Holy Scripture that Aziraphale had lent Daria had smacked him on the head and fallen nearby, just barely escaping the bowl of soup. After that, it had turned out to be impossible to bolster the old woman’s belief in God. Instead, she had come to believe in _Aziraphale_, utterly and completely, even more than she believed in her old gods. She was sure that he was at least a magician and maybe even some kind of a small god himself. So, she obeyed him in everything (except for reading), helped him with plague victims as much as she could, from making medicines to washing corpses, and also took care of Zirochka – as she called him gently in the Russian manner – when he was unable to look after himself.

_Those heathen tyrants came after you again_, he remembered Daria’s words. Oprichniks. The tsar’s guards. Looking for traitors, for disloyal men, for magicians and witches. A month ago, when he had just come to Moscow, Aziraphale had managed to draw them away and defend Daria’s plague house – or rather the little hut in the Moscow trading quarter where the old healer had cured the sick. During the time they’d been helping each other, there had been five attempts to arrest them on suspicion of witchcraft. So what would happen if he left her?

However, today’s incident proved that Daria could very well survive on her own.

Besides, Aziraphale was not going anywhere. At least not now. Not before the plague left.

_And not before Johann does what he promised_, – said a quiet snarky voice at the back of his head. However, Aziraphale only winced wearily; he had no strength to think about Johann now.

He closed his eyes but couldn’t sleep. There were four more sick people next door, each one like that poor boy. And it didn’t matter how many of them he had already saved – more and more of them were brought every day. Old people, small children, men in soldiers’ clothes, who couldn’t lift even a bowl of medicine, let alone their weapons.

It was too much to bear. It was as if he was in Europe in the fourteenth century again. As if there had been no time gap between this plague and that one, as if there had been no life, no books, no wars, no sea, no Heaven…only eyes filled with pain. Tired eyes, frightened eyes, old eyes, children’s eyes, yellow eyes… flickering out, closing under his hand…

Aziraphale realised that sleep wouldn’t come to him today, so he had to find another way to recover his strength. He rested for a while and then forced himself to his feet.

“Daria, I’m going to the tavern,” he announced, and walked out into the street. The air smelt weirdly of smoke.

The angel needed a drink, urgently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you’ve probably noticed, this fic is full of historical details, and, although it is not necessary to know where all of them have come from, I still made some notes in case you’re interested. I’ll post the comments in the Author’s Note after the fic, and now I’ll just point out one thing that might be hard to understand. 
> 
> If you don’t know much about Russian names you can probably get confused by their shortened forms. For example, In the first chapter there are four different forms of the name _Ivan_:  
1) _Ioannes_ – the old name used in the Bible; Russian tsars usually used it as their full official name instead of Russian _Ivan_; 2) _Vanya_ – simple short form; Crowley calls the boy in the tavern _Vanya_ because he doesn’t know his name, so he just uses the most widespread name in Russia. 3) _Vanka_ – the pejorative form of Vanya.
> 
> I’ll talk a bit more about names in the Author’s Note. 
> 
> But if you have any questions for me, please, feel free to ask me, I will be very happy to chat!
> 
> ***  
Come and see a beautiful illustration of this chapter by curious_Lissa: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900049/chapters/60252211


	2. Chaper II

Aziraphale sank heavily onto the bench at the table, and almost without looking shoved a coin into Alyosha’s hand. He already knew the boy quite well, and he merely nodded and ran away, returning a few moments later with a cup of _sbiten_ with honey and wine and a bowl of cabbage soup. Technically, it was against the law to serve food in so-called _tsar’s taverns_, but Aziraphale did the owner favours every now and then, and Daria seemed to have had a hand in it as well; she’d asked people at the tavern not to give the angel anything to drink on an empty stomach.

The local cuisine was not as exquisite as French or exotic as Japanese, but he had slowly got used to its simple richness. Russian food reminded him of pictures painted with only two or three colours, but those colours went together perfectly. Besides, it was good for recovering strength, and God knew that Aziraphale needed that right now.

There were lots of people in the tavern, but surprisingly many empty tables. Only half a glass later, Aziraphale came to his senses long enough to work out the reason for it; most of the customers had gathered around one of the tables in the far corner of the room. Apparently, there was some sailor or minstrel there, and now they were trying to get a juicy story out of him. The angel listened.

“…Like, in Denmark, for example… When we were sailing through it, I heard this legend about a prince – don’t know if it is true, though; wasn’t there when it happened… Anyway, his uncle murdered his father – the prince’s father, I mean. Murdered him and married the Queen. So, that prince pretended to be mad, and gradually killed both his uncle, and his mother, and half of Denmark too. That’s what I call a drama, eh? I should give this subject to someone – it would be a blast in the theatre. Oh, you don’t know what a theatre is yet, do you? Well, what was it all about? I mean, I’ve seen lots of things, you may be sure of it. But I haven’t seen anything like your tsar’s court since the bloody fourteenth century! Or fifteenth…”

Aziraphale was sure he’d heard those intonations before, although the voice itself was unfamiliar. He stood up without putting his cup down and carefully approached the table in the corner. At the same time, several people left it, apparently sensing a dangerous turn in the conversation.

“Have you ever seen anything like that? A man being skinned, a man being boiled alive, a man being sewn up in bear’s skin… Ah, what am I talking about – _you_ see it every day! You even go to stare at it instead of the theatre. Why would you need the prince of Denmark if you have the tsar Ivan the Terrible? Is this how you call him? _The Terrible tsar_? Well, I tell you what; when you all move to the Lower Floors, you’ll like it there – it’s almost the same as here. And you may even get to watch your Father the Tsar himself boiling in a cauldron. Now, that’s gonna be a hell of a performance, isn’t it?”

People were already moving away in droves; some of them went to occupy more distant tables, and others just left the tavern to get out of harm's way.

“You’ll be lucky if none of them brings the oprichniks here, my dear,” Aziraphale said as he stopped by the table and looked down at the rather drunken young man in foreign clothes.

The man looked up with unfocused eyes, shook his head, and then gave Aziraphale the happiest of drunken grins.

“I can’t believe my eyes! Aziraphale, is that you?!”

“Hello, Crowley,” the angel said, smiling as well as he sat down across the table. “What are you doing here? Tempting the weak-minded?”

“I wish I were!” Crowley snorted. “Those minds are thick as woods. No, angel, everything is much simpler; I’m here because I’m getting drunk. But the question is – what’s brought _you_ to this place?”

“You won’t believe me if I say – the same.” 

“Really? Well, then you’ll have to catch up. Hey, Vanya,” Crowley called Alyosha. “Bring us two cups of beer!”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and gave the demon a sceptical look. “How am I supposed to catch up if you drink as much as I do at the same time?”

“Wait, wait, I’m not done yet. Vanya, two cups of beer and a jug of your burning wine!”

“Crowley!”

“Aziraphale, hush. Meeting you here is the best thing that’s happened to me since I left England. And that was bloody long ago. Come on, tell me what you’re doing in this shithole.”

“There is a plague in this… hole, Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly. “And there are also people living here. Clever, generous, friendly, inventive people. And it’s not for me to remind you that the plague doesn’t care about who to carry away, and no one deserves such a death…”

“Don’t make me remember,” Crowley muttered. His eyes had seemed to have cleared a bit, but at his words they became even darker, and this time not because of the wine.

“I’m helping them,” Aziraphale said with a shrug.

“Helping? They’ve assigned you to Russia to save people from the plague? Didn’t you earn – I don’t know – a couple-millennia holiday for your deeds during the last one? Damn… Couldn’t they send someone else here? I don’t know, some specially trained angels maybe?”

“They did, that’s the problem; during the hard times, there’s always someone on duty here. But Amaliel, who had been here before me, was accused of witchcraft and executed. She was too weak and couldn’t get away… And so it happened that I met her in Heaven. I’d just got a new corporation and was about to go back to England, but Amaliel feared that paperwork would hold her Above for too long, so she asked me to step in for her.”

“You people are impossible. Why did you do it? To get yourself killed too?” Crowley looked distressed. “These folks are incapable of feeling gratitude to those who do them good. The only thing they respect is strength, the only thing they feel is fear. Mark my words, you’ll end up in a fire in less than two days. In a noose – if you’re lucky.”

Crowley dropped his head down and leaned his forehead against the top of the glass. When a moment later he looked up again, there was a circle imprinted on his forehead. Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle.

“As they say here, let the baby play, if that stops its crying,” he said and wasn’t sure himself what he had meant – the ridiculous look of the worrying demon, or the horrific ways of entertainment of the people he’d decided to save.

Crowley shook his head with a mixture of annoyance, horror, and – if the angel wasn’t imagining it – admiration.

Aziraphale felt guilty at once – must be the alcohol hitting home – and decided to confess that it hadn’t only been selflessness that had brought him there.

“Besides,” the angel said, lowering his head shyly. “I wanted to visit this place anyway. You know, they say that there is an amazing library of rare and precious books kept in Ivan's cellars. His grandmother, Princess Sophia, had them brought from Constantinople. Now they are being translated by some foreign priest Johann Wetterman. I’ve spoken to him once and even made a list of the books based on what he’d told me. There are remarkable items! But he can’t take anything away from the palace. He promised me that one day he would arrange for me to see the whole library…”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale for a long moment as if he had grown himself a pair of horns or something, and then suddenly burst into laughter. And it even seemed that part of the weight that had been pressing on the demon’s shoulders since Aziraphale had sat down was lifted with that laughter.

“I knew it! You’re hopeless! One day books will drive you to your grave, angel, you know that?”

“I’ve always thought that my friendship with _you_ would drive me to my grave,” Aziraphale chuckled. And before Crowley could notice the F-word that had slipped his tongue, he hurriedly added:

“What are you doing here anyway? I doubt _you_ are here of your own free will?”

“You bet I’m not.” Crowley’s face darkened again. “I was sent on a diplomatic mission by Her Royal Highness… and His Royal Lowness too…”

“I hope you’re not leading us to war?” Aziraphale frowned.

“I don’t think so. But I don’t strive for universal peace, either. I’m a demon, after all. In fact, angel, you should look at history through a broader lens. This fighting the plague is a drop in the ocean.”

“Perhaps, you are right,” Aziraphale agreed tiredly. He didn’t feel like arguing now. He just wanted to talk. Crowley was the only person the angel had been able to talk to in a long while. It felt almost like a day off. “I know absolutely nothing about what’s going on in the world. Even if I wanted to thwart your plans now, I wouldn’t know where to start. Maybe a broader picture is needed… But Crowley, you should have seen those patients…”

Crowley arched an eyebrow and gave him a grim half-smile, and Aziraphale thought that he really ought to have chosen his words better. However, a moment later the demon nodded in understanding.

“I know… This country reminds me of the past too much. I feel as though I were in Europe a century or two ago. Bo-o-oring!..”

Crowley downed his wine and hid his eyes in the beer cup again, leaving Aziraphale to watch the top of his head for a while.

The spirit of Spain was visiting the angel’s memories quite often these days. Sometimes wearing black clothes, and sometimes – red. During _that_ plague, Crowley had received that horrible order from his bosses: to bring the disease to King Alfonso. The demon hadn’t been able to heal himself until the King had fallen ill, and the siege of Gibraltar had gone to the devil. And then… then it was already too late.

After Crowley had come back from Hell, he and Aziraphale hadn’t seen each other for a long time, and Aziraphale had supposed that the demon had been avoiding him, as he always did when he was ashamed of something.

And then, some of Aziraphale’s superiors had thrown out a hint that Crowley had received a commendation for the Inquisition. For the first time in many years, Aziraphale had had a firm intention to discorporate the demon in the most painful of humane ways… But as soon as he had found Crowley, he had realised that the demon had had nothing to do with it. He had been sitting on a narrow bed in a room above an inn, and around him, forming a sort of a comical sacred circle, stood a wall of empty bottles. His fingers, which had laid on the clay neck of the next vessel, had trembled weakly, and there had been such an anguish in his golden eyes that Aziraphale had never seen in any angel, demon, or human – as if Crowley was longing to be none of those things.

Since then, Aziraphale had suspected that it was that kind of longing that Crowley called _boredom_.

“I had to watch the execution today,” Crowley said hoarsely, looking up at last.

“Oh,” was the only thing Aziraphale could utter. Now everything became clear. “And I didn’t even know there had been an execution.”

“You could have guessed. By the smell.” Crowley snorted. “The first one dragged on for ages. Dismemberment. When they started boiling people alive, I left – faked a swoon. If I’d waited a bit longer, I wouldn’t have had to fake it.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Crowley, but you’re a demon. Surely, you’ve seen much worse things in Hell!”

“I have,” Crowley nodded crossly. “But those are _demons_. It took them centuries to reach such levels of cruelty. And humans manage to get there in some sodding twenty or thirty years… And they don’t even do it because of anger or hatred. They do it because they think it is the right thing to do! Do you know what Ivan told me about that man who was being executed? That he had _loved_ him! Can you imagine that?”

Unfortunately, Aziraphale could. One evening wouldn’t be enough to name all the times when people said love justified their cruelties. What a mess their heads must be… Although Crowley’s was too, if for a slightly different reason…

Aziraphale downed his next drink to stop trying to sort out other people’s messes. Crowley followed suit.

“I thought you liked people,” the angel decided to remind Crowley.

“I like people in general, I said nothing about ssome partic…parc…tickle… ssspecific indi…dividuums, ” the demon hiccupped and poured another drink for the angel and for himself. “Though… what is to be expected from a guy whose nickname is _the_ _Terrible_? N-nothing good. A spooky nickname – a spooky guy…”

“That’s not what _terrible_ means, my dear…”

“Well, it should!”

“_Terrible_ means ‘stern’ here. And a strrict tsar for them is the same as a strrrong tsar…” 

“That’s what I m-mean – they are barbarians… Why does everything about this place make me feel as though I’ve time-travelled to the past?”

“Mongol-Tatar Yoke,” Aziraphale explained. He was glad that even in his current condition he was able to explain something. “Had been stuck here for two hundred smthing years… It made ’em a bit slow in ever’thing.”

“Except for the drinking. It’s where they are ahead of the curve.”

“’Xcept for the drinking,” the angel agreed.

Crowley raised his cup, spilling half of its contents: “To progresssss!”

They clinked their glasses. Aziraphale realised that he hadn’t noticed the moment when they had started to touch their beer cups less and less, more often turning to the jug of so called burning wine instead. It was not exactly wine; it was at least twice stronger, and although it was meant to be split with water, Crowley preferred to wash it down with beer instead, and the effect of that was extraordinary. And a bit frightening. Aziraphale had also missed when the jug had run empty and had been changed for a new, pleasantly heavy one. Alcohol mixing with exhaustion was taking over him. He hadn’t been able to fully restore his angelic powers for many days already, spending everything on his patients. His legs were heavy, and his head was light, and this slowly pushed away all his worries and anxieties, until he was laughing at one of Crowley’s jokes about some dynastic marriage.

“Do you know what I’d do if I were you?” Crowley asked in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning across the table towards Aziraphale.

“What?”

“I would forget about the plague healing, and I’d go and dig out that Ivan’s library myssself. Ssseriously, y’might wait for another ten yrsss till your mate getss enough cour’ge. And you could be executed tomorrow. And no bookss. Wanna do’t together?”

Aziraphale sobered up a bit and stared at Crowley. That anguish that had been lapping in the demon’s eyes, visible even through the spell he was using to cover their real colour, was now gone, and its place given to familiar mischievous sparks. The Old Serpent was up to his old tricks.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut to make the demon stop doubling. “You’re drunk.”

“Thaaaat’sss the plan,” Crowley nodded so passionately that a couple of dark strands of hair fell out of his neat ponytail.

Aziraphale thought that he looked a bit like a pirate captain, calling his crew to throw themselves into a boarding fight. The angel felt that he needed just one more short to go after this captain and fight the sea devil himself…

However, that short was destined to never be drunk.

Suddenly, the door behind him slammed, and someone called his name.

“Aziraphale! Zirochka, ducky, there you are!”

The voice calling him definitely wanted something from him which a drunk Aziraphale clearly wasn’t able to give. So the angel miracled at least part of the alcohol out of his bloodstream and looked up.

Looking down at him stood Daria, scared and dishevelled. The tears on her cheeks were mixed with traces of something dark._ Soot?_ Aziraphale guessed. _But_…

Crowley interrupted his feverish thoughts. The demon didn’t care about the old healer’s worries – there was something else that had caught his attention.

“_Zirochka_?” he repeated, looking between Daria and Aziraphale. He had the most delighted smile plastered across his face. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Daria? What’s happened?” he asked.

“That’s it, Zirochka, the end!..” She started lamenting and wringing her hands. “They came, those wretched godless people! They came with torches, just like that, without charge or trial… Came and burnt everything, fiendish barbarians! There’s no fear of the gods in them!”

Aziraphale went cold.

“Sit, Daria. Tell me everything calmly…”

“How can I be calm, dear, what calmness can we have now! I went to bring water, and I was going back when I saw them coming…”

“Who, the oprichniks?”

“Oh, no, Zirochka! If only… No! People. Those who had been snitching on us to the tsar. He sent one of his dog-headers with a broom and wrote three words: “Sweep them out.” And the one with the broom gathered a mob, while I was away, and led them to us. And fire, ducky, oh, how much fire they had with them! As if they had crawled right out of the flames of Hell!”

“Objection,” Crowley mumbled. “No one is let out of the flames of Hell just like that, there are consssscientioussss people working there…”

“Hush,” Aziraphale said, and kicked him under the table.

“I hid around the corner and didn’t face them, Zirochka, forgive me, a weak-hearted woman… I’d waited till they did their black deed, and only then did I run in to see if there was someone left in the house…”

“And..?”

“No one, dear, thank gods, they’d burnt an empty house… I think it must have been Mitya who drove everyone out as soon as he heard the noise in the street. Mitya, whom you had healed less than an hour before…”

“Good.” Aziraphale let out a breath. At least no one had been hurt. And as for the house – they could find a new one.

“Hey, I bet I know what you’re thinkn’ ’bout?” Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale and snapped his fingers in front of his nose. “You’re thinking: I can make it work again, I can go on helping those heartlessss, ungrateful beasts? I must find a new house quickly so that in a couple of dayssss they can burn it down too? Huh? Am I right? Well, sssay it, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled, and Daria flung up her hands.

“Angel! That’s who he truly is, an angel! You are right, sir… Can we even deal with those people? No, this time we’ll have to take our time… to wait… Or next time they’ll burn us with the house, and they won’t take pity.”

“Listen to the wise woman, _Zirochka_, she has a point.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Crowley could barely keep himself from laughter at how sweet this version of Aziraphale’s name sounded.

“You’re right, Daria,” Aziraphale sighed, pretending that Crowley was not in the room at all. “We’ll need to lie low for a while. Find a safe place, take a rest. When the time comes, I’ll look for you.”

“But how will you find me, dear, if I lie low?”

“Fear not, I will,” Aziraphale smiled. He took the old woman’s hands gently and gave them a light squeeze. “Thank you for everything, Daria. Farewell.”

“But what about you, Zirochka?” the healer asked with touching concern. “Come with me, I shall find a place for you too. There are many kind people in Moscow, and there are even more outside Moscow. You can’t be alone, you’re so weak now, my dear, you’ve given yourself away to people, bit by bit…”

“Good thing, he is not alone then,” Crowley said suddenly, and Aziraphale was surprised to feel the confident hand of the pirate captain on his shoulder.

Daria gave the demon a sceptical once-over and shook her head.

“This is not right, Zirochka, oh, this is not right,” she grumbled a little sternly and a little sadly. “_This one,_” – she nodded at Crowley, – “Will lead you to no good, mark my word.”

“Actually, it’s _me_ who is going to lead _him_ to something good,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Eventually.”

“You’re overconfident, Zirochka,” snorted Crowley.

***

  
When Daria finally left, they needed two more silent shorts before they could return to that blissful state of detachment which they had reached before her arrival. However, now Aziraphale felt something else too. This something else could be described as a freedom-mixed-with-despair, some kind of totally Russian I-have-nothing-to-lose recklessness… He needed just one last push to make up his mind. And there it came.

“You abs’lutely should do it,” Crowley said with drunken certainty. 

“What?” Aziraphale asked, although he very well knew _what_. 

“Nick the library, that’s what,” Crowley explained with the air of a teacher who was already fed up with telling his failure of a student the same thing over and over again.

“I’m not going to steal anything, Crowley. I am-m an-angel, after all…” He paused for a while, looking into his cup. Crowley watched him in anticipation. The wine in the jug was running low again, but Aziraphale didn’t want to leave. Besides, he had nowhere to go anyway. Those ungrateful people had taken away his home, and they had taken away his chance to help them. They had made it very clear that they didn’t want his help. It made him both sad and… calm. He was free. “Maybe just to have a look…”

“Come ooooon, Zira! It’s perfect; you get your books, Ivan gets a kick in the arse...”

“And what do _you_ get?” Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

“Fun.” Crowley shrugged and stood up. Now there was an unconcealed flame dancing in those eyes. For some reason Aziraphale didn’t want to extinguish it; he realised that, in a way, he was basking in its warmth himself.

“Okay… But I’m not in good shape now… Wait until tomorrow?”

“Nah, tomorrow I might not still be here. And today I can help you. Besides, to drink so damn much for two days in a row is bad even if you’re damned already. It’sss unss-settling when so much time sslips away from your memory. Ssso? Sso? C’mooon!”

“Aaaaahhh, fine!” Aziraphale exclaimed. He jumped to his feet too quickly and swayed. _‘S okay, the deck of the pirate ship should be swearing… swaying, _he reminded himself. “But w-wee-won’t do’n-nything against the law…”

“Of course not, angel!” Crowley grinned. “Everything will be peacsseful and quiet.”

“And wee-won’t _steal_ the library, we’ll just hava…a look…”

“If _that’s_ what you want…”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the elbow, and they were already halfway to the exit when he made a sharp turn, almost knocking the angel off his feet in the process. He stepped towards the counter and pointed his finger at the sizeable leather flasks on the wall.

“We’ll have thisss. And thisss… To take away,” he finally controlled his hissing and took a handful of coins out of his pocket. Only half of them were Russian. “Fill it with good stuff… We might need to sober up in the process.”

“Or we might not,” the angel chucked conspiratorially.


	3. Chapter III

It was much more pleasant to walk the streets of Moscow with wine and Aziraphale than without them. The angel was spouting stories about the things he’d seen here, about the lives of his patients. About the traditions and customs of the Russians, their history, princes, wars, about the first local saints and who knows what else… A couple of drops later Crowley could once again see the beauty in these crooked, motley streets that had struck him when he’d first stepped foot onto the Moscovian land. A couple of times, however, he had to perform small miracles to make the people passing by be less curious about them.

“Y’know what’s the most astonishing? That Ivan’s the first Russian tsar. Before him, they’d m-managed to live without tsars, kings or emperors here. There were only princes. And who were princes, really? Y’know who? Commanders in Chief. With noble blood, but still… They had been—what was it?— _primus inter pares_ – the first ’m-mong equals. But Ivan decided to glorify himself above the others, and the others agreed. And before that, there hadn’t even been any princes. And the people agreed that they couldn’t live in law and order themselves, someone had to rule them, so they called the N-north’n princes so that they could become their leaders. Can you imagine that? They basically called for their conquerors themselves. Do you remember any other nation who would willingly let others rule them?”

“Hmmm, in fact, everyone’s doing it all the time. These guys were only a bit more honest, and didn’t pretend they were free or knew what to do with their freedom.”

“You’re a cyn…ic…” Aziraphale hiccupped.

“’M a demon.”

They passed a nice fence beside a monastery, lined with strange bushes with thorns and flowers. They resembled rosebushes, except for they were growing on individual stalks and had an absolutely divine smell.

At first, Crowley passed them by, afraid to touch the plants that had grown on hallowed ground. However, when the monastery was almost left behind, Aziraphale suddenly stopped and said, “Oh, go back already and take a sample.”

Crowley frowned.

“What is it, angel? Are you tempting me to taint hallowed ground by a theft? I believe that usssed to be my job.” 

“Well, I see that you can’t think of an’thing else. Sighed yourself out already… Besides, we’re going to spend the whole afternoon on my hobby, so why wouldn’t I let you do s’mthing that you like first? Go ahead, brother, you have my blessing,” he added, clapping Crowley on the back. 

“Don’t need your blessing…” Crowley grumbled but hurried back to the marvellous bushes. He half-expected the thorns to bite into the skin of the evildoer who had dared to touch their branch, but although they were wary of his fingers, they sensed that those fingers could be tender and careful, so the demon soon got himself a small graft with a sweet-smelling flower bud, almost without a scratch on his hand.

“Do you know what it is?” Aziraphale asked him.

“Nope. Some wild Russian rose.”

Finally, they reached the moat surrounding the Kremlin.

“You know what just occurred to me?” Crowley said and remembered to take a sip from the flask and then hand it to Aziraphale.

“Mmm?” said the angel, struggling to swallow the burning liquid.

“We need a cover.”

“A cover?”

“Our clothes are too different,” the demon explained. Indeed, Crowley was wearing a rich but slightly dusty doublet of a foreign ambassador, while Aziraphale had only a monk’s cowl of an indistinct order and not even a cross. “I can’t give you anything of my clothes, because the tsar’s people are watching my flat. And I can’t possssibly change into something like you’re wearing, because they won’t let us in then.”

“Why don’t we just mir…ic...le… some clothes for me?”

“’M’not sure I can miracle proper things when I’m in this ssstate,” Crowley found an excuse. “Besides, it’s an adventure! Who needs easy ways?”

“Okay. And what is that cover of yours? I bet you’ve already made it up.”

“Hell, yeah.” Crowley grinned broadly. “I’ll tell’em you’re a magician, and I’m bringing you to the tsar’s trial.”

“What?! A trial? You… Crowley, have you seen his trials?”

“I have. There’s a bunch o’them every day. That’s why’sss a good idea – it sounds plausible. Besides, they already know that the guards were sent after you. Remember, they’ve burnt down your asylum, kicked the patients out…”

“You’re rrrright.” Aziraphale’s fingers squeezed the flask with determination.

“And don’t be afraid, I’ll always be close.”

They made only several steps when Aziraphale suddenly stopped.

“Look, don’t you… er… don’t you need to tie me up, then?”

“Wha-at?”

“Well, if I were a magician, I wouldn’t give ma’self up just like tha’. Oh! Let’s say that you chased me, an’I gave you a black eye, an’you tied me up, eh?”

“Hey. Wait, wait, wait! Where did the black eye come from? There wasss no black eye in the cover. You wanna walk in ropes – feel free to walk in ropes. But I’d prefer my eyes to stay yellow… er…grey… no… Whatever! Not black!”

“Oh no, m-my dear, I would never… I just thought… we could draw it, maybe?”

“Makeup is for actors who can’t act with their own faces.”

“What about props?” Aziraphale asked hopefully, trying to hide a rope he’d already miracled up behind his back.

“That’sss fine with me.” Crowley tried to grin as wickedly as he could.

Aziraphale beamed. He handed the rope to Crowley and then held his wrists out, pressed together.

The angel’s hands sticking out of the black sleeves of the monk’s cloak seemed small and fragile. There were callouses on his palms and fingers.

And then Crowley suddenly realised how surreal this whole situation was. In the old times, the angel wouldn’t have let Crowley within arm’s length. And even if he did, he would have preferred to hold a sword in his hand.

But here and now, there wasn’t a weapon in his hands – instead, there was such an absolute, implicit trust that Crowley would have considered it naïve if he hadn’t known how long it had taken Aziraphale to feel it.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be too tight,” Crowley mumbled, trying to comfort himself as much as Aziraphale.

He took a shuddering breath and got down to business.

Aziraphale was holding his wrists still. It was an easy task to make a loose loop. Or at least it would have been, if it hadn’t been for Crowley’s own hands, which were shaking badly.

The rope brushed Aziraphale’s skin, and the angel chuckled.

“Oops! It tickles.”

Crowley flushed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Gritting his teeth he finally wrapped the rope around Aziraphale’s hands and made a knot. He tried his best to make sure it hung as loosely as possible.

He was already sighing with relief when Aziraphale said:

“And now make a bigger loop and put it round my neck.”

Crowley was choked up.

“W-where?”

“Haven’t you seen the criminals led along the streets?”

“M-maybe this’ll be enough?” Crowley mumbled.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to act convincingly otherwise.”

Crowley bit his lip. He made a large loop from the rest of the rope and put it around the angel’s neck. Then he stepped forward to tighten the knot of the loop… but he had no sooner closed the distance between them than he completely lost his nerve. His fingers went numb and barely worked. Crowley was terribly afraid to make one wrong movement and somehow hurt Aziraphale.

He expected Aziraphale to notice it and ask him what the matter was, or to understand that he had trusted a demon with his safety and regret it.

As if he had heard his thought, Aziraphale slightly lifted his chin up. He wasn’t afraid of Crowley, the demon realised, and even if he was, he did his best not to insult Crowley by showing the feeling. Crowley was not in the right condition to process this discovery at the moment.

The rope was still visibly loose around Aziraphale’s neck, and Aziraphale snorted a little in amusement and ended up tightening it himself. “I see you’re quite the expert in tying people up.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley muttered, but his ears were burning and he was far too relieved that he had escaped the situation to offer much more resistance.

Aziraphale smirked at him, and Crowley hastily turned and continued walking towards the palace gate, giving Aziraphale’s rope a little harder of a tug than was strictly necessary. “Come along, prisoner.”

Aziraphale laughed even louder but trudged obediently behind Crowley.

“Quiet, angel, or I’ll have to add a few words to your cover and tell everyone that you’re not just a magician, but a mad magician.”

“Oooh, that’s sounds fabulous! Let’s say that, okay? I’ve always wanted to try acting…”

“But angels can’t lie, how are you going to pretend to be someone else?”

“I’m m-much better at lying than you are, m’dear.” Aziraphale’s sudden inappropriate amusement was now unstoppable. “Besides, pretending is not the same as lying.”

They came up to the gates.

“Pssst, Crowley?” Aziraphale tugged at the rope, and Crowley turned around. “Won’t the guards n-notice that we’re… erm… like… this?..” He chuckled.

“What? Sssupernach’ral beings?” 

“Nah… Drunken beings?”

“Hmmm…”

Crowley thought about it and realised that he’d already sobered up considerably while he had been dealing with Aziraphale’s bloody rope. Regardless, he wasn’t ready to lose the rest of his buzz for a couple of guards who probably were not stone cold sober themselves. So, he settled on taking a bottle of French perfume out of his pocket – he hadn’t parted with it since it had been invented (his sensitive nose was both his gift and his curse) – and sprinkled himself generously with it. Frankly speaking, he barely resisted doing the same with the angel.

“They won’t notice,” he said, and shook his head so energetically that he almost lost his balance.

“Mm-m, nice.” Aziraphale grinned.

“It’s not for drinking.” Crowley waggled his finger at the angel, who had leaned forward in an effort to better smell the sweetness. “And I don’t think _you_ need to sober up. Our story will cover you.”

Crowley had deliberately chosen the gates that were used by individuals and not by ceremonial processions. They were less well-guarded, and a decent appearance was the only thing required of those who were entering. However, the pair of guards there currently still looked at them with suspicion.

“Halt!” One of them blocked Crowley’s way. “Who are you two? What business do you have in the city?”

The other guard chuckled. “I know what their business is – to find something drinkable. Look, this one is swaying. I can smell such business from a mile away.”

“Nah, it’s not for drinking, what you smell.” Aziraphale shook his head and pointed at Crowley.

“He won’t let you.”

“What is he talking about?”

Crowley realised that he had to save the day and hurried to try the so-called cover. 

“Good afternoon, dear sirs! My name is Count Anthony Crowley, and I’ve caught a mad magician in the city; our lord’s servants have long been searching for him. The tsar wants to try him himself. And I, his capturer, have the honour of bringing him to His Majesty.”

He elbowed Aziraphale slightly, and the angel understood belatedly that it was time to play the part. He rushed forward and tried to grab the guard’s clothes, screaming.

“Good people! Help me! Save me from this lousy pagan! I will go to the tsar… I will tell him… That he must stop or he’ll destrrooy our sacred Russian land…”

“Y’ see?” Crowley said to the guards. “He’s not in his right mind. I even doubt that he ever had a right mind of his own.”

The guards looked at each other. One of them took Aziraphale by the shoulder and stared at him intently.

“Hey, wait! Isn’t this that very healer who has cured my Mitya? We were already thinking of taking the lad to the graveyard, but this one stopped the cart and said: _Take him to my place_. And today Mitya came home, safe and sound… Is that really you, father? Do you need help? Shall we arrest this person?” He nodded at Crowley.

Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley rolled his eyes and, after reaching for his powers, made both guards fall asleep. They slid down by the wall, and the angel and the demon barely escaped the poleaxes that fell after their owners.

Crowley turned to the angel.

“You could have mentioned that I was going on a mission with a celebrity. Was it really necessary to heal half of Moscow?”

Aziraphale smiled shyly, almost apologetically, and spread his hands helplessly. He had forgotten that they had been tied up, and the right wrist came out of the rope. Crowley rolled his eyes again, but only to hide the odd warmth he suddenly felt in his chest.

“It was fun, though.” Aziraphale said. “They were going to help _me_ and arrest _you_!”

“Oh yeah, great fun,” Crowley scoffed. “Alright. That was the easy part. We should be even more composed now.”

“We were composed before?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t believe I am more serious about stealing books than you are.”

“How many times do I have to tell you: we aren’t stealing the books!”

“How many times do I have to tell you: _sure, sure_.”

They reached the palace without incident, except for the fact that Aziraphale kept pointing at every building they passed, trying to tell Crowley their entire history. In his head, Crowley was singing a song he had picked up from the sailors of his ship.

When they came up to the palace, Crowley whispered to Aziraphale: “That’s it, angel, end of the tour, the performance begins.”

As if in answer, he received such a harsh glare that he almost worried if he’d somehow offended the angel. But then Aziraphale pulled at the rope with all his might and yelled:

“Let me go now, you blasted Frank!”

Crowley barely managed to keep hold of the rope and belatedly got into the game.

“Quiet! Quiet!” he shouted, deliberately faking an accent and pulling Aziraphale towards the steps of the palace, where the unusual pair was already being watched by two curious guards. “Go, wissard, go!”

“I’m not a wizard, you ignorant fool; I’m a doctor!” The angel jerked at the rope with such strength that Crowley almost fell down. He wrapped the rope around his arm, pulled Aziraphale closer, and whispered into his ear:

“Zirochka, cut back the Sophocles, will you? Or we’ll never get to the stairs like this.”

Finally, they got up the steps and found themselves in front of an oaken door and its two gate-keepers.

“Who are you?” one of them asked, his little black eyes looking from one strange guest to the other, even stranger, one.

“I am Count Anthony Crowley, I’ve caught this mad charlatan in the act. Because of his evil deeds, the plague is spreading all over Moscow—” He heard Aziraphale gasp but didn’t spare him a glance. “I was ordered to bring him to the tsar’s chambers and wait till His Majesty comes himself to question him.”

“The tsar is not in the palace right now. After the execution he went to his summer palace to discuss business with the ambassadors.”

“Oh, this is good!” Crowley beamed, but cut himself off on time, before the guard started frowning. “I mean, not good. Still bad at Russian. So, you mean, the palace is empty?”

“Pretty much so, I’m afraid. I thought a man like yourself should know. You being a Count and all. Shouldn’t you be with them?”

“Oh, I was delayed by this awful man.” Crowley tugged at the rope again. “Had to postpone my duties to catch him.”

“Sounds like too much honour for some pathetic charlatan,” the second one said, scratching his beard.

“Don’t be tricked by his looks; this man is a dangerous warlock and a real Hercules; I saw him drink a whole jug of burning wine all by himself and wash it down with beer… Tell them, didn’t you do it?” For added effect, Crowley tugged slightly at Aziraphale’s rope. He swayed and answered:

“Hic.”

“He appears rather feeble for such heroic deeds.” The guard doubtfully shook his head.

“Me?! Feeble?!” suddenly snapped Aziraphale. With one movement, he untangled himself from the ropes, and then smoothly threw Crowley onto the floor. The demon yelped, more from surprise than pain. In their turn, the gate-keepers immediately took Aziraphale seriously. They grabbed their poleaxes tighter and tried to block the doors.

“Hey, hey, just be careful, no scratches! The tsar needs this magician alive!” Crowley yelled improvising and looking in horror at the figure of Aziraphale next to the massive guards with their poleaxes.

“What do you want us to do with him?” one of the guards asked nervously.

Crowley staggered to his feet.

“Give me your… this… how do you call it again?”

“The poleaxe, sir?”

“Yeah, it. And open the door. If I’m armed, he’ll be more likely to obey me.”

The guards hesitated. It was clear that they didn’t want to let unreliable individuals enter the palace, but they also couldn’t be keen on keeping the pair of them on their doorstep. And they could get rid of them by letting them into the palace.

Finally, they gave up. One of them handed Crowley the poleaxe—a sort of spear with an axe head on the top—and the other cautiously opened the door.

“I’ll tell the Duma clerk that you have arrived, my lord,” said the one who had given Crowley his poleaxe as they entered the hall.

“Good idea.” Crowley nodded, and when the guard was several steps away he put a spell of distraction upon him.

“Now, what was that?” grumbled the offended Crowley, dusting himself down. He knew he had the look of a beaten up rooster that was still trying to save its dignity.

“You were enjoying your role too much.” Aziraphale stuck out his tongue. Despite appearing more than a little exhausted, his expression was bright and almost gleeful. “Why’s-it only you who can look m-mpressive?”

“If you want to look impressive, don’t stick your tongue out,” Crowley pointed out.

“’M sorry, my dear…” Aziraphale mumbled, sighing. “I must confess I got carried away a bit. Did you hurt yourself?”

“It’s nothing. The suit is dirty now, though. D’you think they’ve swept that porch at least once since the foundation? I doubt it. Will you dust down my back, please?” He turned his back to Aziraphale and watched out of the corner of his eye how a guilty conscience was fighting with embarrassment on the angel’s face. However, he couldn’t bear Aziraphale’s suffering for more than a few moments, and burst into laughter. “I’m kidding, angel! Oh, Lord, Zirochka, relax, it’s an adventure, for Someone’s sake. Here, have a drink…”

Crowley didn’t take Aziraphale to the familiar ceremonial halls where the ambassador’s reception had taken place earlier that afternoon; instead, he headed to the residential wing, where he thought the tsar’s chambers must be located.

“Do you think they’ll figure it out about us soon?” Aziraphale asked with regret, looking back.

“Nah, the spell won’t let it. What, you’re worried there’ll be too little time for reading, aren’t you?” Crowley chuckled. “Well, if there’s no other way, you can always take ’em home.”

“Firstly, I don’t have a home,” reminded Aziraphale. “And secondly, m-m-m’not taking anything away.”

“Well, you haven’t seen it yet…” Crowley shrugged. He was already looking forward to the sight of Aziraphale gasping and sighing at every volume, unable to be everywhere at once. He knew Aziraphale perfectly well; the book lover won’t be able to leave empty-handed. And the embodied conflict between passion and duty which the demon was going to witness would give points to any Greek tragedy.

They were about to turn around the corner when they heard voices and loud steps accompanied by the clanking of armour. The noise was coming from the corridor, which as Crowley supposed led to the tsar’s chambers.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulders and hurriedly hid with him behind an open door. But whoever it was – probably some other guards – walked past them. They heard fragments of the conversation.

“Do we have to go? I mean, we should guard the tsar’s room.”

“Don’t be a coward! The tsar isn’t here…”

When they left, Crowley got out of their hiding place. Aziraphale followed him.

“I can’t believe our luck! Seems like those were the tsar’s guards.”

“Where d’you th-th…ink they’ve gone?”

“Well, it’s perfectly clear – they’ve gone to the tavern. A boss’ssss day off is a worker’s day off.”

After going down a long corridor, Crowley noticed stairs that led down to a narrow oaken door.

“Oh, Zira, look!” He waved his hand and tiptoed to the stairs. “A vault. There must be a treasury here…”

“No, Crowley, wait!” hurriedly whispered Aziraphale, but it was too late; Crowley had already unlocked the door with a simple spell and pushed it open. “It’s not a treasury…”

For a few seconds, Crowley stood on the doorstep, unable to move, as if the room was pulling him in. Then, very slowly, he turned around and closed the door. He felt sick.

“It’s a torture chamber, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah.” Crowley nodded and took the flask out. “How did you know?”

“Johann told me. But the good bit is that it means we’re close! The passage to the secret hiding place, built by Ivan for the library, begins right in his bedroom. And his bedroom is about two steps away from the torture chamber.”

“What? Seriously? Who puts a torture chamber next to the royal bedroom?”

“Somebody who can’t sleep until he makes sure that all his enemies are locked in jails and he is no longer in danger?” Aziraphale suggested.

“I don’t get it; are you defending him or what?”

“No, just trying to understand.”

“If you were allowed to, you’d have taken all the sinners in Hell out of their cauldrons. You have a soft spot for bastards, angel, I’m telling you.”

“Maybe I have.” Aziraphale turned to Crowley and gave him a meaningful look. Crowley felt his cheeks heat and hurried to dive into his flask again. Aziraphale also took out his. “I’ll have a drink too! I’m feeling a bit nervous… Can’t believe I’ll finally see it…”

“You should have brought flowers. Or wine. Otherwise, the date is not romantic enough,” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale took a sip from the flask and pretended that he had heard nothing.

Then they came up to the doors of the tsar’s bedroom.

Crowley pushed the angel out of the way and opened the door – only to bump into a little old man in a long shabby _caftan_. When he saw the strangers, he instantly blocked the entrance, thrusting out his chest and even looking taller.

“Who are you? Thieves and villains or honest people?”

Crowley wanted to say something, but Aziraphale stepped forward before him.

“Hello, my good man. My name is Aziraphale and I’m a friend of Johann Wetterman, who is translating books for our tsar. Johann asked me to bring him some good ink, and I have found this foreign gentleman, who sells outlandish ink for a good price.”

“Johann’s not here. Johann will be here tomorrow,” the old man, who was probably the tsar’s bedmaker, said, eyeing them suspiciously. “Come tomorrow.”

“No, no, no, Johann arranged it with the tsar, and he let us bring the ink today so that tomorrow Johann could already write with it, you see? We had been already prepaid; we wouldn’t want to delay the goods…”

“I don’t know, I never got no orders, can’t let anyone in without His Majesty,” the bedmaker insisted.

Crowley couldn’t stand it any longer. He made a decisive step towards the old man and grabbed his hands. At first, the bedmaker flinched, but then felt a small velvet purse in Crowley’s hands, and the shapes of heavy metal roundels in its fabric.

“Haven’t you heard us, fool – the tsar’s allowed it,” said Crowley softly and winked, leaving the purse in the old man’s hands.

“We-e-ell, if the tsar’s allowed…” he said slowly, and then carefully moved aside in tiny steps.

“Thank you; you can go now. We’ll put the ink there and leave,” Crowley said and ‘shook his hand’ in the same way one more time.

After letting them in, the old man left, looking back suspiciously from time to time.

“You bribed him, didn’t you?” Aziraphale asked disapprovingly once they were inside.

The tsar’s bedroom was a cramped room with a low vaulted ceiling, high and wide canopy bed and a long, narrow table covered with papers and books. By the walls stood carved wooden chests, some of which were hidden under the heaps of clothes. On the bed there lay a richly decorated fur coat and a hat with fur trim and precious stones. On the whole, the place looked awfully small and dark, and despite some objects of luxury resembled the cell of a monk.

“Well, yeah,” Crowley shrugged looking around himself. “Why?”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and sighed.

“Right in front of my eyes…”

“No, but what’s the big deal? I’ve never understood what you lot have against bribery. It’s a peaceful way of solving conflicts, helps to avoid violence.”

“I’d prefer you’d punched him in the ear. There’d have been less damage done to his soul.”

“What about _mine_?”

“And yours is beyond repairing anyways.”

“I know. But if there were a human in my place, you would have to choose whose soul to damage… Besides, I’d have broken my fingers if I’d hit his wooden head. Last time I fought in a tavern in London because someone thought they had a clever mouth; I had to heal my bones for days afterwards, you know. Not my cup of tea.”

Aziraphale sniggered, and Crowley noticed that he was eyeing the demon’s sleek, thin fingers.

“What?” Crowley snapped. “Actually, you also should start looking after your hands! You do everything with them, and then don’t even clean them before tending to patients. When you move back to a civilised country, I’ll introduce you to the specialists… And now, let’s look for the library.”

Finding it turned out to be easy. Aziraphale almost immediately headed towards the carved screen that stood near the wall opposite the entrance. After moving it aside, the angel busied himself with the wall hanging.

As Aziraphale searched the wall, Crowley’s own attention was drawn to Ivan’s personal table. Almost all the papers lying on it in neat stacks and in messy piles were covered with the tsar’s handwriting. There could be something there that would be very useful to Crowley.

The demon shot Aziraphale a sidelong glance. The angel was still fidgeting with the wall hanging; he had managed to lift it from one side, but when he stepped behind it, it covered him whole, catching him like a mouse in a mousetrap. Aziraphale was panting, trying to disentangle himself and preserve his dignity at the same time. On another occasion, Crowley would have surely laughed at him, but now it was an advantage that Aziraphale was not looking.

Crowley hurriedly searched through Ivan’s papers. Finally, he noticed a folded sheet of paper. He glanced over it. It was quite good, but could have been even harsher… 

He took a quill and ink and quickly added a couple of lines to the empty space of paper above the seal. He had just taken the letter in his hands and blown on it to make the ink dry quicker when there came a horrendous crash – the wall hanging had fallen down to the floor, taking Aziraphale with it.

Crowley raised his head and burst into laughter: the angel was sitting on the floor, rumpled and covered with the hanging like a tortoise in its shell. But the most wonderful part of this sight was Aziraphale’s face. It was the face of the happiest person in the whole creation. With glistening eyes and a broad smile, he was looking at a narrow door that had appeared behind the hanging. He was pointing his finger at it.

“There it is! I found it! Ivan’s hiding place! The… the library!”

“Great job, angel! Congrats! We must drink to it.” Crowley took the flask from his inner pocket and handed it to Aziraphale.

“I still have some in mine,” the angel said, shaking his head. “Let’s drink to it and clink glasses… _flasks_. Like Rrrussians do! To the success of our adventure!”

“Deal!” Crowley beamed. He pulled the cork off the flask with his teeth and spat it onto the floor.

They clinked flasks and drank, and then Crowley saw that for some reason Aziraphale was staring at the cork lying on the floor. Then his gaze traced Crowley’s left arm, which the demon was still holding behind his back.

“What have you got there?”

“Where?” Crowley took another sip – the best way to fudge an issue.

“Here.” Aziraphale grabbed his wrist with surprising agility given his drunken state and snatched the letter out of Crowley’s fingers. “_In the name of the mercy of our God… We, Great Ruler, Tsar and Grand Prince Ivan Vasilevich of all Russia… to Queen Elizabeth of England, France, Ireland and Others…_ What is this?”

“Can’t you see yourself?” Crowley said, trying to force nervousness out of his voice. “’s a letter.”

“Ivan writes letters to Elizabeth?”

“Sure. Why else would there be English ambassadors here?”

“And…” It was obviously hard for Aziraphale to process the significance of this discovery, and the swaying room and Crowley’s attempts to dodge the question were not helping. “What is your role in all this?”

“Oh, the mossst posit’v one!” Crowley shook his head so energetically that almost fell forward. “I’m trying to prevent a dynastic marriage.”

“What?!!”

“It’s easy. Ivan proposed to Elizabeth and also asked her for political asylum in case things go wrong for him here. In exchange, he offered good trade relations and the same conditions of asylum if everything goes wrong for his wife in her country. I delivered that letter to Elizabeth, and I also gave her a piece of advice—that she didn’t need a husband for whom things might go wrong at any minute. I made sure that she wouldn’t accept his proposal.”

“So you _are_ leading us to war, after all, old serpent!..” There should have been indignation in Aziraphale’s voice, but instead, for some reason, he sounded almost hurt. “And you told me…”

“There won’t be a war, angel! Just think about it – don’t they have enough problems in their own lands? Would someone really sail hell knows where just because some barbarian king from the arse end of nowhere called the Queen a _mere common maiden_?

“Called her what?”

Crowley nodded at the letter. Aziraphale stared at it again.

“But this has been added just now!”

“Ivan will thank me later for this expression; it’s gonna be quoted in all the history books. You’ll see…”

“And you’ve brought me here only to tamper with this letter?! You’ve used my frien… my love of books, so that I, _an angel_, could cover you while you are doing your foul d-demonic… d-deed?”

“Zira, calm down!” Crowley was still holding the flask and couldn’t put it into his pocket as the cork was now lying on the floor. He took a step towards Aziraphale and put his free hand on the angel’s shoulder. “First of all, this will be good for everyone. Can you imagine Ivan and Elizabeth as a happy, loving couple? Hm? Who do you think will be the first to strangle or poison the other one? And these countries? These are two completely different worlds. A union between them would either turn one of them into a slavish colony of the other or destroy the stronger one from the inside as happened with Rome and Byzantium. And thirdly, it’s not at all why I’ve come here! I’ve come here with you, for your books – that was the plan. And this thing… I just came across it…”

“Aha! If you just _came across_ it, why would you hide it? And if you really wanted to do something good, why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I didn’t say I was going _to do good_, don’t twist my words, will you? They’ll tear my head off because of you. I said it would_ be good for everyone_. Including me. And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to talk about business. I don’t mean _with you_, I mean… _at all_. Wanted to forget. You know what, I’ll just leave the letter here, and we’ll finish what we’ve started, eh?”

Crowley smiled awkwardly and hurriedly shoved the letter back onto the table, regretting he’d picked up the damn thing at all.

“Shall we have another drink?”

Aziraphale nodded silently. And they had another drink.

“I’m sorry,” the angel mumbled, looking down at the floor. “I didn’t mean to say… well, that you…”

“That’s okay,” Crowley said generously and patted him on the shoulder. “And I didn’t want to kill the fun.”

“It’s jst… when I’m l-like this,” Aziraphale hiccupped and gestured at the flask. “You’re sometimes too compli…complicated for me…”

“Well, _you_ are _always_ too complicated for me, angel,” chuckled Crowley. “If you weren’t it wouldn’t have been so interesting. Now, let’s get back to business.”

He fidgeted with the lock for a while and then opened the door. Behind it lay a narrow corridor that went straight for a little and then down. It was dark, and Crowley miracled a small torch into existence. Without another word, Crowley and Aziraphale began descending.

There was a small room with a door downstairs. This door took Crowley longer to unlock; he didn’t want to waste too much power, and they still had time as those guards had clearly left their duty for something more pleasant. However, the angel was almost hopping from foot to foot with impatience.

“Don’t you worry, Zira. I’ll deal with it. Just one mo, and we're in.”

Finally, the door gave in.

Inside the room, which seemed rather dry and warm, there stood several big oaken chests and a massive writing desk. On top of it lay a huge manuscript book opened to the very beginning.

The lids on some of the chests were lifted, and, in the light of the torch, their contents were sparkling and gleaming like a treasure in a magic cave from some Arabian fairy-tale. It took Crowley a moment to realise that they were only the richly decorated covers of the books, and the truly precious things lay beneath them.

Next to him, Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter from Ivan to Elizabeth that is mentioned here is a real thing. You can read it here if you want to: http://eng.history.ru/content/view/131/87/, although the translation of 'Crowley's' line is slightly different. In Russian, it sounds more offensive, actually, because the word 'пошлая' ('common'), in modern language doesn't only mean 'ordinary', but also 'vulgar'. :( And it is indeed quoted in history books, as Crowley has predicted.
> 
> ***  
Come and see a beautiful illustration of this chapter by curious_Lissa: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900049/chapters/60252298#workskin


	4. Chapter IV

Aziraphale stepped inside with a reverence he’d never shown any of God’s temples. He had dreamed about it for so long without even knowing if the object of his dreams existed. He took a deep breath. The smell of book dust and history made his heart race in excitement. Behind his back, Crowley chuckled quietly. Aziraphale turned to him a little awkwardly and said:

“You wouldn’t mind if I..?” He gestured at the books.

“Oh, my! ’Course not! Why else have we come here?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “And for making me do this too.”

“Anytime. Just drop a hint that you are ready to be tempted, and I’ll think of something.”

Aziraphale thought that Crowley’s smug grin didn’t look wicked at all. But maybe it was too dark here.

“I’ll need light. And… probably to sober up… a bit.”

He took a candle from the table and lit it. Holding it in his hand, he approached the nearest chest. 

“Tacitus… Suetonius… Okay, these are historians… And what do we have here? Aristophanes? Oh, dear Lord! Ivan really has comedies here! And Pindar’s songs! Syrus! There are not many editions of his satires; actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen any…”

Aziraphale didn’t even have to put much effort into sobering up – the mere vision of the books had a sobering effect on him.

He was flying from one chest to another, gathering most rare and interesting books in a pile on the table. Then he sat down and started to read. He had already read several pages of Aristophanes’s comedy he’d only once seen before and never read when he remembered he wasn’t alone here. He glanced awkwardly at Crowley. The demon had settled on one of the chests with his flask and was studying some book rather curiously.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Er… Are you sure you are okay with sitting here… with me?”

“What?” Crowley looked up from the book, distracted. “Oh, yeah! Pretty much. I’ve got my drink, and this book is quite interesting.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale wondered what book could grab Crowley’s attention so thoroughly.

“Uh-huh.”

He thought he’d seen a small smile in the corner of Crowley’s mouth, and he could swear that the demon was waiting for him to ask about the book. So Aziraphale didn’t.

Another hour or two flew by. It became rather stuffy in the room, and although the angel and the demon didn’t really need oxygen, it was already quite hard to read. Aziraphale knew that he wouldn’t be able to sustain his body magically for a very long time, so he decided he’d better choose the books wisely.

As he finished “Oratories and Poems” of Calvus and was choosing among the multiple volumes of historical treatises, he noticed that Crowley was still looking through the same book. Aziraphale gave up.

“Okay, I give up,” he said. “What is it?”

“What?” Crowley raised his eyebrows innocently.

“The book you’re reading. What is it?”

“Oh. That’s just some novel. Wanna try?” He stood from the chest too suddenly and swayed a bit. “Oops! It’s really stuffy here, isn’t it?”

“I won’t be too long,” promised Aziraphale.

A book lay in front of him. The title read: _Gynothaet._

“Hm… I’m not sure I’ve heard about it.”

“Just try it. No, wait. Read here.”

Crowley opened the book on a specific page and handed it to Aziraphale. The angel started to read, not entirely sure what he was reading.

Until he realised.

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale felt the heat of embarrassment on his face. Crowley was giggling like a schoolboy.

“Angels aren’t supposed to read such books! You… You… naughty demon!” He knew he was blushing.

“Angels aren’t supposed to read comedies either!”

“Take your horrible book back!”

“But why? I can’t see why you are so angry! It’s about love!”

“Yes, but… Hey, what is it? Can you hear it?”

“You’re changing the subject, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m serious. Are those bells?” Aziraphale came up to the thick wall and listened.

“Don’t know. Maybe.”

“Isn’t it too late for them to ring?”

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t pay much attention to the traditions of bell-ringing. He usually tried to stay away from the churches if he could.

“Okay. I guess I should read faster.”

He sat down again. However, it was harder and harder to concentrate on reading, even though almost every one of the books was a treasure in itself. He had to remind his body to function without oxygen and to persuade the candle to burn. Besides, it seemed like it had become a bit noisy outside the building. But maybe it was the side effect of exhaustion. Crowley, meanwhile, was still sitting calmly on the chest, drinking his wine and watching Aziraphale. He’d left the book on the table, which proved that he had been reading it just to make the angel curious. Aziraphale smiled. And immediately, the candle on the table went out.

“Oh.” Aziraphale jumped a bit.

“Let me,” Crowley said quickly as he snapped his fingers and the candle lit up again. “You focus on reading.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale smiled again, but he couldn’t get back to reading at once. His thoughts kept returning to Crowley, who had been sitting with him here for hours, clearly dying from boredom, but waiting silently as he watched him reading.

Finally, he pushed the book aside and took his own flask. He drank from it, and maybe it was the exhaustion and the lack of magic, but this time the treacherous liquid rushed to his head, making him feel free and happy, and also bringing some dubious idea with it. 

“My dear?” he asked, picking at the cork with a finger.

“Yeah?”

“Do you really need that letter?”

“Well, I did come for it from England.” Crowley smirked unhappily.

“No, I mean… You wanted to take it now…”

“Yeah, it could have spared me of yet another meeting with the tsar. I wouldn’t have to talk him into writing the letter in a way I need it, wouldn’t have to watch people being skinned alive and worry about my own skin. But mostly – it's just a matter of time… I’ll get my job done in the end.”

Aziraphale took a couple of rather big sips from the flask and was preparing to say something else when they heard knocking and loud voices above them.

“Someone’s found us?” whispered Aziraphale, eyes wide in horror.

“No, it’s unlikely; we’ve closed the door of the bedroom. They are just knocking at it because the bedmaker knows we are here.”

“Right…”

“I’ll deal with them.”

“No!” Aziraphale suddenly stopped him. He wasn’t entirely sure why. He told himself that he was worried about the people behind the door. But if he were completely honest, he had just had an idea, and now the circumstances were giving him a chance to carry out his plan. “No, I’ll drive them away, and you close the room. We should leave soon anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Well… I’d love to have them for longer. They are gorgeous. But I’m afraid I’m in no condition to go on reading right now.”

A new pounding at the door came from above, and Aziraphale hurried to the stairs.

“Okay. Sure.” Crowley didn’t argue anymore, and Aziraphale supposed that the demon must have been thankful for the sudden salvation from this boring adventure.

Aziraphale hurriedly entered the room of Ivan the Terrible again. It was strange to be here alone, without Crowley – almost frightening, really. On the other hand, when the angel imagined how grateful Crowley would be when he brought him the letter, he found a grin pushing at his cheeks. It was a worrying feeling that Aziraphale always had when he was helping the demon. But it was more of a thrill of adventure and interest in making Crowley happy than the fear of doing the wrong thing. It surprised him every time.

And he wasn’t doing any harm to anyone, was he?

With this thought, Aziraphale took the letter from the table and shoved it into his inner pocket.

“Maybe there’s no one there?” A voice came from behind the door. Aziraphale had almost forgotten about the main reason for him coming here. The sudden noise made him jump a little and knock a pile of books from the edge of the table.

“Or maybe there _is_,” answered another voice, and then the pounding continued. “Hey! Who’s there? Your Highness? Your Highness, are you in there?”

“It can’t be the tsar!” a whisper answered to the first speaker. “The tsar left Moscow when he heard about the raid.”

_The raid?_

Aziraphale went cold. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it certainly was not good.

“Of course it’s me!” he shouted, trying to sound as menacing as he could, and not to stammer too much. “Who else would it be? What’s going on?”

“Your Highness? How are you in there? Don’t you know? Devlet Giray, the evil Tatar Khan, has come to burn Moscow!”

And that was when Aziraphale smelled the smoke. He rushed to the window, but it was too narrow, and he could see very little. The fire probably hadn’t got inside the Kremlin yet. But the trading quarters were consumed by the flames, and two towers of the fortress close to them were already burning.

“Your Highness. They shot burning arrows at the palace! The wooden roof is burning. Come, we have to leave before it collapses!”

Aziraphale was too drunk to make a reasonable decision, so he made an unreasonable one.

He grabbed the fur coat that was lying on the bed and wrapped it around himself. He scooped up the tsar’s large hat and pulled the furry brim down to cover his eyes as he hurried to the doors.

Aziraphale knew that he had to act decisively. Fortunately, he had enough decisiveness now; the room was dancing merrily around him, and the tsar's clothes made him a feel powerful and untouchable. He cracked the door open and roared:

“How dare you to let those pagans stomp upon the sacred Moscovian ground?! Does my army eat bread it doesn’t deserve?! Whyyyy is the Krrrremlin burrning? Who missed the fiend and let him in?”

Two guards standing behind the doors flinched and stepped back in fear as they suddenly saw Aziraphale’s angry face, partly hidden under the hat.

“The traitors have brought the Tatars to Moscow. They told them we had less than six thousand men. And there are more than a hundred thousand of Tatars. We won't stand a chance in the fight… Shall we go against them anyway?”

“Of course not!” Aziraphale exclaimed, almost forgetting to do the voice. “Let our warriors retreat inside the Kremlin, and take the people away from the square right now. Help them hide! And try to put out the fire.

“But, my lord, I’ve come for you...”

“Do you take me for a small child or for some mindless fool? Do you think I won’t be able to find a way out of my own palace? Get thee out of here! Do as you are ordered!”

With these words, he shut the door right in front of the guards’ noses.

At the same moment, there came a horrible noise from behind him. Aziraphale almost jumped out of his coat. It sounded as if half of the building collapsed behind his back. “Aziraphale spun around and saw a long crack suddenly appear on the wall of the room opposite him, looking like an ugly scar.”

“Crowley! Oh, no! No, no, no–”

Aziraphale let out a breath and hurried towards the hidden door, tripping over the furs as he went. It was hard to breathe on the narrow staircase leading down to the library, the air filled with dust and tiny bits of stone falling from the ceiling. Finally, he stepped into the room where the door leading to the library was.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted as loud as he could and immediately started to cough. “Crowley! Are you there?! Are you alright?!”

There was no answer. The screams from the outside became louder now, and Aziraphale doubted if he would hear anything over them. And then he realised that there would be nothing to hear.

In the dark, he almost bumped into a stone wall that hadn’t been here five minutes ago.

No, not a wall. The ceiling. The ceiling was on the floor…

The building that had once been attached to the tsar’s chambers and stood directly above the library had crashed down. Aziraphale didn’t know how the fire could eat away the structure from the inside so quickly, and he didn’t really have time to think. The only thing he knew was that this was the freshly erected tomb of Ivan’s library and… Crowley.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale ran back and forth along the rubble. There was no breach anywhere, and he didn’t have enough powers to lift even one stone.

Aziraphale was panicking. He wasn’t sure he was thinking straight, but he knew he had to do something to help; his angelic duties demanded it. Were there any people left in the palace? And what about the others, outside the Kremlin? Has anyone warned them at least to run to the safety of Kremlin? Why weren’t the bells ringing anymore? Aziraphale had to do something.

He had to get Crowley out of here... No, he _wanted_ to get Crowley out of here. He _had to_ warn the people. 

But what if Crowley was still alive and he would be leaving him here, with the books?

_What do you love more, people or books?_ – His inner voice asked him rather inappropriately.

“Crowleeey!!!” Aziraphale yelled desperately for the last time, feeling a lump in his throat that was making it hard to breathe. There was no answer. Of course, there wouldn’t be any answer.

He sniffed, almost instinctively reached for his flask and swallowed the tears together with the alcohol. 

This gave him a bit of strength. At least now he had only one option left.

Aziraphale hurried back up the stairs to the bedroom, then out of it to the corridor. There were more windows here, and he smelt rather than saw that the smoke was already filling the place. He took a moment to run to the nearest window and look out at the darkened square. He couldn’t see the people below, but the fire was drawing his attention anyway. There was a semicircle of flames in the trading quarters right behind the Kremlin walls. It was burning as if there were a crack in the ground that led directly to Hell. The night sky above it was red and filled with newly born stars of sparks from the fire. Through another window, Aziraphale saw the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great. There were spurts of flame on one of the upper floors.

Aziraphale’s determination grew stronger.

_That’s why the bells weren’t ringing!_

He rushed along the corridor, trying one door after another. Very soon, he found what he’d been looking for – the palace chapel. Every house of Russian nobility had one. And the chapel here had a rather tall belfry as well. Aziraphale just hoped it was still intact. In one of the walls of the church hall, he found a tiny door that led to a narrow staircase that he guessed wound its way up to the top of the belfry. He climbed upwards, clawing at the railing with both hands to steady himself.

At the first open landing, he realised that it wouldn’t be easy; those burning arrows that the guards had been talking about had probably hit the belfry as well. But it was too late to go back.

He glanced quickly at the square below. On one side, the merchants’ rows were burning. Crowds of people were rushing to the Kremlin gates, but not all of them were open. And, for some reason, nobody was trying to put out the fire. Neither the one in the palace nor the one outside the walls. Aziraphale didn’t understand; surely they knew that the fire would spread further? The wind which hadn’t been there only several hours ago was now so strong that Aziraphale, who was swaying a bit from alcohol and fatigue, had to grab the bannister for support.

Besides, Crowley could still be there, somewhere… And the books… And maybe more people in the palace. Someone had to start fighting the fire. Maybe Aziraphale couldn’t see the bigger picture again, but he needed to do at least something.

On the last landing, the fire met Aziraphale. The roof of the belfry was partly wooden, and it was now burning like a torch against the night sky. As soon the angel stepped on the landing, he had to cover his face from the flakes of soot flying around. He looked up and saw small spurts of flames crawling through the hole in the hipped roof over the wooden ribs that constituted the frame. But otherwise, the small room with the bells was still intact. There were four of them. A huge one in the middle, hanging from the ceiling, and three smaller ones to the side. Aziraphale grabbed desperately at the clapper of the biggest bell and jerked at the rope several times with all his might.

It was not the first time he’d rung church bells. However, the bells of European gothic cathedrals sounded absolutely different from Russian bells. The former had more depth and strict, sombre solemnity about them. And these had voices of lilting joy and slightly sad festivity.

His ears were plugged at once. The ringing seemed so loud and sudden that the angel couldn’t suppress a short yelp, and he didn’t fall down only because he was holding the rope of the bell clapper. However, he didn’t let it stop him and just tried to ring as loudly and alarmingly as possible despite the pain in his ears. After giving two heavy strikes, he darted towards the smaller bells and sent a disturbing chime around the square.

It was hard. Aziraphale’s head was spinning because of the wine, exhaustion, smoke and some strange excitement that filled his whole being. Finally, he dropped his arms, sore from the effort, and ran to the railing.

All of the heads on the square were turned to him. The belfry was tall, but not so tall for them to be unable to see a figure on top, wearing a fur coat and the tsar's hat.

“It's the tsar! Look!”

“The tsar himself is ringing the bells! Whoever has heard of such a thing?”

“Look, the belfry! It’s on fire! God the Almighty! I swear it is!”

“What is he saying? I can’t hear.”

“It’s him ringing the alarm, saving the people...”

“Ah, dream on! He’s just calling for help...”

“And the palace is burning now too! The fire’s gonna eat it and come after us!”

“Bring water to extinguish the palace!” Someone shouted, and several people left the crowd and rushed to the wells.

Aziraphale gathered a little magic he still possessed and tried to convey his last order:

_“Open the second gate! Let the people in!”_

They heard him. The guards finally overcame the panic and realised what was needed from them. They opened the other gate, barely escaping the flood of people that rushed into the Kremlin. 

Aziraphale watched crowds of people trying to get into the Kremlin from the side of the fire and the men running towards the palace with buckets of water. 

The angel was filled with excitement; it seemed to him that with every strike of the bell he raised a fresh wave of people and drove them away from the fire like a wind drives sea waves towards the shore. He barely noticed that the fire had jumped from a nearby wooden beam to the thick fur coat and was now crackling as it ate through the brocade.

The people of Moscow would survive, saved by the sounds of bells ringing in the church of a burning palace.

Beautiful scenery for salvation. And beautiful scenery for leaving this world...

Aziraphale was going to make one last desperately solemn chime, when suddenly—

“Angel! Damn! Have you lost your mind?!!”  
  
The next second, Aziraphale was almost washed off the belfry by a gush of water which had come right out of Crowley’s hands and doused him from head to toe.

_Crowley?_

In his surprise, the angel lost his balance and awkwardly sat down on the floor. The wet coat pressed down on him like a heap of stones, and the fur of the hat was plastered down onto his forehead, covering his eyes. Despite the dangerous situation, Crowley couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the sight of him.

“Dear me, Zirochka, you should see yourself now!”

The demon folded up and would have probably cried with laughter had it been possible.

“I... I thought you had been killed in the tunnel...” muttered Aziraphale, trying – and failing – to stand up.

“No, the rockfall missed me. But I had to clear the stones away, and I think I only have a little magic left now too,” he said, looking nervously at his wet hands.

“You call _this_ little?” Aziraphale gestured at his completely wet coat.

“Well, frankly speaking, I was planning to extinguish the roof too...”

At that second, something crackled above them. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and jerked him upright.

They barely managed to jump back towards the railing before the huge bell came unmoored from the roof, broke through the floor with a thunderous noise, and fell down into the palace.

“We should get out of here... It’s already swaying,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale’s first impulse was to manifest his wings and simply fly down to the safety of the square. But, to his horror, the angel realised he couldn’t do it – he didn’t have enough magic left for even such a natural action. It felt as if he had suddenly become too weak to carry a part of his own body. Aziraphale went cold; it also meant that he might not be able to survive discorporation should it happen now…

“I can’t fly,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “It would be the same as jumping.”

He heard a rustling of feathers, and, when he turned around, he saw Crowley's black wings shielding them both from the burning roof and the walls of the belfry that were about to collapse. Before Aziraphale could think, the demon stepped towards him decisively, wrapped his arms tightly around him, and leapt from the edge of the roof.

Aziraphale’s heart jumped with the feeling of unexpected gravity. He gasped and clung to Crowley, although it was hardly necessary; Crowley was already holding him so tightly that the angel wondered how he still had strength for it. He didn’t see the approaching ground – only the gorgeous black wing and the belfry, collapsing in front of his eyes.

“It’s a demon!” someone in the crowd shouted. The words sank into deafening screams at once.

“Run!”

“A demon, out of the flames!”

“He’s abducted the tsar!”

“Oh no, it’s the tsar who’s summoned the demon!”

“Nah, it’s not the tsar at all!”

“Run!!!”

There was at least one good thing about the people’s panic – it cleared a space for Crowley to land.

He dropped down onto the ground, deliberately leaning back so that he wouldn’t fall on Aziraphale and hurt him with his wings. As a result, Crowley lost his balance and would have definitely damaged his wings if he hadn’t hidden them in time. He fell on his back and only then did he finally release Aziraphale and burst into laughter.

“I wish our bosses could see us now!”

Aziraphale hurriedly crawled away from the demon, putting a safe distance between them, but he couldn’t help but be infected by Crowley’s cheer, and he gave a little smile too, shaking his head.

“At least_ I_ have a good reason – I was s-saving people. What are _you_ going to tell yours?”

“Mm? That I was thwarting your plans on saving people. By the way, how is this glorious headwear helping you in your godly deeds?” Crowley pointed at Aziraphale’s head, and he realised that he was still wearing the tsar’s hat, wet and covered with soot.

“Dis-disgus-disguise,” he mumbled. Something was telling him that he had better stand up and make himself scarce, but neither head nor feet listened to that voice of wisdom. He had just enough strength for staying conscious.

“If you wanted to frame the tsar, you could just as well do it properly.” Crowley waved a hand, and two small horns grew up out of the wet hat.

Aziraphale touched them and looked at Crowley reproachfully.

“Crowley, don’t you think, it’s not the right time..?”  
  
“Demon!” someone in the crowd shouted. “It set the church on fire! Bring the holy water, Father, quick!”  
  
All of Aziraphale’s light-headed relief at their narrow escape vanished at once.

“You must go!” Aziraphale jumped to his feet and grabbed Crowley’s sleeve, trying to pull him from the earth. “Those are monks, they can be dangerous...”

Crowley turned in fear to look at the mob running towards them. They were led by a man in a long robe and a huge beard who was waving an iron rood at them threateningly. The demon manifested his wings again, but they drooped heavily under their own weight.  
  
Crowley looked at Aziraphale in doubt.  
  
“I’m not sure I can take off with you...” he said quietly.  
  
“What? Why would you need..?” Aziraphale frowned and then understood. “Oh. No. You go, Crowley, I’ll get out of this one somehow! They have no weapons against me, but you... please, fly away!”  
  
“Okay.” Crowley nodded, still casting worried glances at the crowd. Then he shook his head as if driving away heavy thoughts and smiled. “Hey, Zira? Forget the Tatars, we’re the ones who had a great raid here!”  
  
Aziraphale only smiled and shook his head.

“I’m afraid, tomorrow you’ll have to remind me what happened here. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk that much...”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to do so, angel,” Crowley winked wickedly.

The demon spread his wings, rose up into the air with difficulty, and flew away.  
  
“Shoot, you fools, what are you waiting for!” someone in the crowd shouted, and Aziraphale gasped when arrows sprang into the air after the black figure, leaving the scene.  
He wasn’t sure if his eyes deceived him or he really saw one of the arrows graze Crowley. But it didn’t stop the flight anyway. Crowley was saved.

With a happy smile of a mad man, Aziraphale turned to the petrified crowd.  
  


***

“Eh, no, it’s not the tsar!”

“No way the tsar can be that puny...”

“Well, he is definitely dressed like the tsar, I’d know this hat anywhere.”

“Would you? And what do you think the tsar was doing up there on the roof with a demon?”

“Perhaps it was not a demon after all? Maybe you were just imagining it?”

“And the others? Were they imagining it too?”

“Whether he is the tsar or not, the hat suits him alright! Just look how funny he is; you must make a sketch later!”

“Maybe he was trying to warn the people about the fire?”

“That’s right! I was…”

“Ooooh!!!” There was a gasp from the crowd when the angel finally opened his mouth. Everyone fell silent.

“I really tried to warn you all... And honestly, that tower is still burning, and the Tatars... Where..? Is anyone fighting them at all? I mean, if I were you, I’d let me go.”

“What’s he talking about?”

“He’s tempting us.”

“Dear me,” muttered Aziraphale. “Crowley’s going to be so proud of me.”

He didn’t care anymore if they were going to let him go, kill him or throw him into prison. Exhaustion and alcohol had taken over his weak body so thoroughly that the only thing he wanted now was to fall asleep.

“What’s going on here?” He heard a new voice, strong and confident. Aziraphale even forced his eyes open. A fully armed horseman was looming over him. A broomstick and a dead dog’s head were tied to his saddle. Aziraphale felt sick.  
  
“Who is this man?” the horseman asked.  
  
“It’s a demon! Look at the horns!”

“Or a wizard!”  
  
“He was on the belfry, and then a demon brought him down on its black wings.”  
  
“He’s wearing the tsar’s hat and coat.”  
  
“It’s a pretender!”  
  
“It must have been him who set the palace on fire...”

“Take him away!” the horseman ordered. Immediately, two more guards rode up from behind, dismounted and started to tie up Aziraphale’s hands. He didn’t try to protest. There was too little oxygen left in the air, and too few thoughts left in his head. One of them, however, was that he was being tied up for the second time today, and the first time had been much more agreeable. “Put him under arrest until the tsar decides what to do with him.”  
  
Aziraphale was thrown across the horse’s back. He cracked his eyes open, met the dead gaze of the dog, gave a short yelp and blacked out.  
  
  



	5. Chapter V

Devlet Giray was not going to invade Moscow. It was not in the nature of nomads to become tsars. The nature of nomads was to rob, terrify, and inspire awe and obedience. The fire and devastation of Moscow were good for all those purposes. So, after a day-long celebration in the Russian capital, the Tatar khan had called his cavalry back to the plains.

Moscow was smouldering and licking its wounds. People were returning to their houses if there was still anything left of them.

Ivan the Tsar came back to Moscow from the South where he had fled as soon as he heard of Devlet Giray approaching the city and realized he wouldn’t be able to fight the Tatars. The Russian army was stretched too thin, and had been for the months surrounding the executions of the ‘traitorous’ boyars after the suppression of the conspirators in Novgorod.

Now he had to show his power again somehow. And a good way to do it was to punish those responsible for the Moscow tragedy. Certainly, he couldn’t do justice upon the Tatar khan, but fortunately someone had been captured in the capital who was suspected of having helped Devlet Giray. 

The only problem was that that traitor was half-drunk and slept through nearly the entire interrogation.

“Honessly, my lord you got it alwrong...” the criminal reported, swaying on his feet in front of the tsar. The wet coat and the befouled tsar’s hat had been finally taken off him and added to the case as evidence. “I din’t set anthin’ on fire... Why would I set anthin’ on fire, if evr’thing was burning already?”

“You mean that if everything hadn’t been burning already, you _would_ have set it on fire yourself?”  
  
“Oh noooo! Why would you immediately think bad things? I was in your chambers because I brought some ink for Johann... And then I smelt smoke... then your people came... And I was at a loss! Just did what first crossed my hand...”

“He means to say, what crossed his mind,” translated Crowley, who was standing to the left of Ivan’s chair.

It had cost him an inhuman effort to secure a place among the interrogators, and now he didn’t know what to do with himself. It seemed all he could do was stare helplessly at Aziraphale.

“I got it,” Ivan said between his teeth, without sparing Crowley a glance. He never took his eyes off the angel. “What were you doing in my chambers, you wretch?”

“I’ve already told you: I brought the ink... Right?” Aziraphale suddenly raised his head and looked at Crowley. The demon’s heart sank. If the drunken angel blew his cover... He would probably be able to escape, but any chance at rescuing Aziraphale would be gone, not to mention fulfilling his mission from Hell.

Besides, since the palace had been burnt down, Ivan the Terrible was now temporarily living and working in one of the monasteries. And the monastery, as well as the city itself, was filled to the brim with religious relics, crucifixes and righteous holy fathers, who were always ready to sprinkle holy water on every ungodly man passing by, to say nothing of actual demons...

Fortunately, Crowley’s panic went unnoticed, because the tsar suddenly jumped to his feet and hit the floor with his walking staff.

“How dare you play games with me, peasant! Tell me the truth right now! Or else Malyuta will tear the information from you.”

Unprepared for such an onslaught, Aziraphale stepped back on shaky legs and almost fell down. His drunken and honest face showed such confusion and childish hurt that Crowley barely fought the urge to rush forward and catch him.

“My lord,” Crowley dared to speak again. “I believe everything here is as clear as day. He’s not a traitor and certainly not a conspirator. Just look at him – he’s just an ordinary drunk and a fraud. He can barely stand on his own feet! Do you really think he could help Devlet Giray in such a state?”

“Hmmm.” Ivan scratched his beard.

“He’s probably just a petty thief, one of the runaway monks. He must have seen that the Kremlin was burning and got into the palace intending to lay his hands on its treasures, but didn’t expect that the fire would reach him there. Desperate, he crawled on top of the belfry, thinking that someone would see and save him...”

“No, no!” Aziraphale protested. “I climbed to the belfry to warn the people... about the fire... What a fire it was – ooooh! Almost like in Alexandria, only much smaller... But that’s not the point! The point is that all of this is a misunderstanding. I wanted to do a good thing... And I suc...ceeded!” The angel hiccupped and suddenly beamed. “The people did run to extinguish the palace! And they opened the gates for the people.” 

Crowley didn’t know whether to admire the angel or to tear his own hair out. Aziraphale was doing everything to get himself sent straight to the gallows. And just the gallows would be a best-case scenario; even if the angel were hanged or beheaded, Crowley would have slept easily, for it would mean that Aziraphale would go to Heaven, get a new body and, probably, a new assignment, and finally be rid of this damned country. But the torture room near the tsar’s chambers was heavy in Crowley’s mind, and he remembered the executions he had seen just yesterday and a year and a half before as well. He didn’t feel at all like watching Aziraphale being quartered, broken on the wheel, or boiled alive because of their stupid escapade, especially since it had been Crowley’s idea in the first place.   
  
“How did you get down from the belfry?” the tsar went on, looking at the angel intently. “Witnesses say that you were taken down by a demon whom you had summoned.”

Aziraphale chuckled and looked at Crowley. The demon frantically shook his head. Aziraphale instinctively copied his movement, looking at him wide-eyed and clearly having no idea what Crowley wanted from him. Ivan noticed that strange behaviour and looked back at Crowley, who barely had time to freeze and tilt his head sarcastically.

“Come on, my lord, do you really believe the gossips of idle onlookers? Their brains were clearly fogged with all that smoke. Or even something stronger.”

“So how do you think he got down?”

“Oh, it’s obvious – by the roof. I was there myself,” Crowley dared to risk. “And I saw how it all happened. This guy dropped the bell, lost his balance and fell out of the window. But he didn’t fly straight to the ground. He fell on the flat slope of the roof and rolled down. Here are all his demonic powers for you.”

“Hm...” the tsar said again and looked at Crowley. “It sounds very smooth when you are saying it. Even too smooth, I should say...”

“When one tells the truth, it always sounds smooth, my lord.” Crowley gave him a little smile. Actually, when it came to Crowley himself, that lovely aphorism always worked in exactly the opposite way.

“I wonder how you will explain what he did with my hat? If you were there, you must have seen it too?”

Crowley felt his stomach drop and gritted his teeth. What had made him put horns on that stupid hat?

“I didn’t see it up close, my lord, but I have seen a lot of weird things in my journeys, so no drunken joke can surprise me anymore.”

Crowley knew that Ivan considered himself an educated monarch, and was counting on his vanity. An educated king doesn’t kill a fool just because he doesn’t understand his jokes; it is more shameful to admit that you don’t have a sense of humour than to be laughed at.

Several long minutes passed in silence, which was disturbed only by the tsar’s heavy breathing and Aziraphale’s occasional hiccups.

Crowley’s nerves were on edge. In contrast, Aziraphale, it seemed, couldn’t care less. If it were not for the danger of the situation, Crowley could have had a good laugh at the angel. But the seconds were flying by, and the tsar still hadn’t proclaimed his verdict. At last, he let out a heavy sigh and coughed.

Immediately, his clerk leapt to him and leaned over, bringing his ear to the very lips of the tsar. Ivan whispered something to him; Crowley desperately tried to hear what it was, but couldn’t make out a word. The clerk scribbled a couple of lines in his papers, then straightened up and began speaking.

Crowley took a deep breath, preparing to create some kind of a small disaster and drag the angel out of the monastery should the worst scenario occur. The voice of reason was screaming at him that it was stupid, that Aziraphale would only face a painful discorporation while his own risks were much higher. But Crowley didn’t often listen to the voice of reason, even if it took a trumpet in its metaphorical hands.

“According to the order of Ioannes, the tsar of Moscow and of All Russia, the thief, sorcerer, and podymshik Zirka the Plague must be hanged tomorrow morning on Bolotnaya Square. Until then he is to be put under arrest in the convent, locked in chains and watched constantly, for this Zirka the Plague is acquainted with evil forces, and if he is caught performing his demonic rituals, the hanging is to be altered for burning alive.”  
  
The clerk fell silent. Crowley let out a breath. This was not the worst outcome possible, and surely he had done everything he could, hadn’t he?

  
“My, my,” muttered Aziraphale, quite puzzled, and scratched the back of his head. Then he looked up. His face was still covered with soot in places, but his eyes were clear and almost glistening when they met Crowley’s. He smiled and said: “Well, that’s okay.”

***

  
Crowley was walking along the streets of the burnt Moscow. He had just left a tavern and held a leather flask in each hand, one of them opened and half empty, the other full and securely closed. This one was for Aziraphale. Even if they put three hundred oprichniks to guard the angel, every one of them with a rood instead of a sword, that wouldn’t stop Crowley from getting the angel drunk one last time. It was the least he could do for him.   
  
Around him were the black walls of destroyed houses. In some places, just stoves stood in the middle of gloomy ashes, the only surviving remnant of the fire. It was quiet.

For some reason, people were not fussing at all, they were not building up a new life, and they were not lamenting the old one. The city must have still been in the state of lethargic shock when every human emotion seems inappropriate, and life itself feels alien and wrong. The air was still bitter from the smoke, and it was eating at Crowley’s sensitive serpentine eyes, as the spell covered only their appearance. Crowley stopped, took both flasks with one hand and rubbed his eyelids. What a stupid physiology: such simple things as smoke or cold affected his true eyes not less than they would affect human ones, but his demonic nature didn’t even allow him to moisten them with tears.

A particularly strong gust of wind blew smoke and ash into Crowley’s face, and he turned away quickly and stepped under the roof of the nearest building to escape it.

Only after a few moments of blinking fiercely and rubbing his eyes, Crowley managed to see well enough to realise that he wasn’t alone in the room. Too young men were staring at him with surprise and perhaps even fear.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, still feeling as if he had sand in his eyes. “I’ll be off right away. Just needed a bit of shelter. Bloody smoke…”

He was already leaving, but one of the men stopped him.

“We have some water if you’d like to wash your eyes, mister,” he said uncertainly.

The other man tried to shush him, but he took a bucket of water and a wooden cup and handed it to Crowley.

Crowley’s eyes hurt so badly by then that he didn’t refuse, and he took the cup and washed his face a little, leaning over the bucket. Only when he straightened up did he finally look around and see where he was.

The house was not really a house. It was more of a slop-built wooden frame that had somehow survived in the fire, probably because the flames had had no interest in such a lousy, uninhabitable building. However, inside it was rather unusual.

Everywhere stood bizarre machines and tools, and long tables were covered with all kinds of instruments. In the far corner of the room, where it was cleaner than near the entrance, stood a massive metal printing press. Neatly folded sheets of paper lay on the table close to it. A young man standing by the printing press was busily shaking dust and ash off the paper.  
  
“What is this place?” Crowley asked, looking around.   
  
“A workshop,” the young man who had offered him the water answered with a shrug. He was about twenty, blond and broad-shouldered like those princes or warriors from the local folk fairytales. “We are the people of boyars Lupatovs. He is Foma, and I am Nikita. Our master is a wise and curious man; he loves all kinds of skills and sciences. When he learnt that Foma and I liked building different things, he gave us free rein for our inventing, as long as it doesn’t harm other work and brings no damage to the household.”

“So what are you inventing here?” Crowley looked curiously between the pair.  
  
“I mostly make stuff useful for the household. And Foma...” He nodded at the other young man, who looked quiet and serious. He wasn’t as tall and robust as his friend, but his sinewy arms and long fingers spoke of great strength and dexterity. “Foma here is an artist – he prints books.”  
  
“No way!”

“He does!” Nikita confirmed proudly. “When the tsar drove the first book printers, Fyodorov and Mstislavets, away from Moscow, their workshop laid empty for a long while. Foma and I were kids then, and we climbed inside to play with the machines. Well, Foma was a hell of a player – a few years later he managed to make his own printing press!  
  
“It doesn’t work very well yet,” said the printer quietly, and modestly looked down. “But I’m working on it.”

“And what are you printing? Some Bibles, I suppose?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Foma said, and for the first time, his thin lips showed a small smile – very swift and very sly.  
  
“I’d say, _exactly not_,” Nikita giggled.

Foma shot him a stern glance, which probably meant that it wasn’t a great idea to open the secrets of their job to a stranger, let alone a foreigner.  
  
“The work isn’t over yet,” the printer said noncommittally.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Crowley promised. “You see, I have a... an acquaintance...” he stumbled, remembering where this acquaintance was now because of him. It was unlikely that the angel would agree to have so much as a glass of wine with him in the next century. “He is a passionate book-lover. You can’t even imagine how much he loves them. I’d like to tell him that I have been to one of the first printing-houses in Moscow. He would die of envy.”  
  
“Hmm...” There was a glint in Foma’s eyes which Crowley knew so very well. Vanity. It was the easiest thing in the world to make such people like you; they were in love with their work, and if you compliment the things they do – they are yours. “Well, if you don’t tell anyone... Except for your acquaintance, of course...”

_Of course_, Crowley thought. _If I don’t tell anyone at all, it won’t be much fun for you in boasting_.  
  
“The thing is: why do we have to print only religious texts? No, not even so. I thought: not every craftsman has a right to print Gospels or Psalter. But why not print fairytales, funny stories... pictures with texts?”  
  
“Pictures with texts?”  
  
“Yeah, like those that are painted on the strips of bast, only printed ones, so that we could make many copies of them.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I’ve seen such pictures in Europe!” Crowley exclaimed. And added: “But not in Russia.”

Foma shrugged, and that glint once again appeared in his eyes. “There were no painted portraits at first either, just icons...”  
  
“You’re quite right!” Crowley nodded. “I’ve always said that it’s rubbish when churches have this monopoly over art. They just emasculate it and make it tasteless. It’s like using wine only for communion. Art and wine must bring joy, light our blood, inspire great deeds.”  
  
“Exactly! You’re saying absolutely the same things that I’ve been thinking. Only better!” Foma grabbed Crowley’s hand in excitement. “How wonderful it is to talk to someone who understands. Come on, I want to show you something...”

He led Crowley to the press. On a narrow frame there lay a clean sheet of paper covered with dense fabric. Foma put on a thick leather glove, dipped it into the nearby pot of paint, and started to daub the letters that lay on the board. It was difficult to make out the words as the letters lay in reverse and upside down.

Above the lines of words, there was a wooden block with some picture carved on it. Foma covered it with paint and quickly turned it upside down too – probably so as not to spoil the surprise for Crowley.

After that, the printer turned the crank of the machine and the platen went down, pressing the paper tightly to the type area. Everyone froze in anticipation.  
  
_Oh, how would Aziraphale love it!_ Crowley thought with some strange sorrow but then shifted his thought away, focusing instead on how he was going to cheer the angel up when he returned from Heaven. He just hoped Aziraphale would still want to talk to him.

“Do you know what happened at the palace yesterday?” Foma asked.  
  
“Well, there’s not much to know – the palace burnt down to nothing.” Crowley shrugged.  
  
“And do you know that there was a demon who turned into the tsar? And then people looked and saw that two demonic horns were growing through the tsar’s hat. So they realised that it was a fiend and not the tsar.”  
  
Crowley scoffed.  
  
“As if the tsar couldn’t grow himself a pair of horns just as well. What d’you think?”  
  
The craftsmen dropped their jaws and stared at him.  
  
“Good gracious, my lord, don’t make us sin,” said Nikita and crossed himself with a sweeping gesture. Crowley couldn’t suppress a cough. However, Nikita quickly recovered, probably realising that the cross won’t help him, and grinned wistfully.

“And then that demon summoned another demon, and they flew down from the burning belfry on his wings!”  
  
“They say, he did not fly, but simply fell.” Crowley shook his head.  
  
“Eh, no. Let them say anything they like, but I was there, I saw it. And Foma here saw it too.”

“I didn’t see it. I got there when the demon was already on the ground. You see, Nikita has longer legs. So I saw the horns, but I can’t say anything about the wings.”  
  
“There were wings alright!” roared Nikita. “However, everyone says that it was the same demon, but I think there were two of them. And the one with wings helped the one with horns to get down.”  
  
“So, you’re saying that they were sharing one set of wings and horns?” Crowley couldn’t suppress laughter. “And do they take turns to wear a tail and hooves too?”  
  
“I can’t say anything about a tail and hooves; I didn’t see them,” Nikita answered, sounding a little hurt. “But the wings! They just won’t leave my mind. I was drawing a schematic all night...” In two steps Nikita crossed the room and showed Crowley a drawing that resembled his own wings quite a lot. Crowley gave a whistle: this was clearly a schematic design of man-made wings. “But don’t tell anyone, my lord. The tsar does not like machines. And he especially does not like things that are against nature. He says that all such things come from the devil, that those are the demons who are tempting people to defy God.”  
  
Crowley felt a little proud.  
  
“And you’re what, going to fly on them?”

“Of course, I am! What I believe is that, if God has given man the dream of flying, then man has to find a way to fly. For He had given us thirst and we found water, did we not?”  
  
“That’s reasonable,” Crowley mumbled. Something was building in his mind that looked like a foolish plan – not even a plan, more of a new mischief... “When are you going to finish?”  
  
“Oh, it’s not a problem to make them, it’s more difficult to find all the necessary materials. Wood, canvas, good ropes, you know. Especially now, after the fire; it’s not a good time for thinking about heavens; it’s hard enough to survive on the earth.”  
  
“And if I get you all the materials that you need and also pay for your work in silver, will you be able to make two pairs by morning – one for yourself and one for Foma?”  
  
“Foma wouldn’t want to fly, he is afraid of heights.”

“There’s no need to fly. Just to put them on when I ask you,” Crowley’s lips curved in a smile.

“But what for? Is it some kind of a conspiracy?”

“Oh, no. More like a performance. I’m a great admirer of all kinds of shows, you know. And I swear that’s going to be a hell of a show! Come on, Nikita, say yes! There won’t be another chance like this.”  
  
“You’re like the Tempter himself,” the craftsman laughed. “Ah, what the hell! I can’t promise – you are giving me too little time. But I can try.”  
  
“Deal. The materials will be sent to you within an hour. Take as many assistants as you can find, but only if they are good at keeping secrets. Oh, and there is one more thing; your wingspan is too small. You’d be turned upside down and fall down spinning as soon as you’re in the air. Make each one at least half as much wider – then you will fly.”  
  
“Wow!” Nikita scratched the back of his straw-haired head and looked between Crowley and the wings in amazement. “You may be quite right! How do you know?”  
  
Crowley shrugged. “Seen lots of demons.”

“Are you going to look at this or what?” grumbled Foma, annoyed that Crowley’s attention had switched to his friend.  
  
“Sure!” the demon exclaimed, rubbing his hands. He held his breath and leaned over the press.  
  
Foma turned the handle of the press back. Then he rolled out the frame with the sheet of paper and carefully peeled it back, revealing the picture.  
  
On the white paper looking straight back at Crowley was... Aziraphale.  
  


The demon’s jaw dropped. The picture was simple, of course, almost a caricature, but the likeness amazed Crowley; those plump cheeks which the angel had somehow managed to keep even despite his otherwise gaunt appearance, his nose, a little bit pert – either capricious or childishly naive, and those eyes, of course – huge and unangelically mischievous and at the same time, wise and serene.  
  
The thin beard, which Aziraphale had grown to look like locals, was bristling up to one side fightingly, and on his head sat the wet tsar’s hat, complete with two horns. Frankly speaking, he didn’t really resemble a demon – he looked more like a Viking whose ship had sunk so he had to swim to the shore – but the picture was fantastic anyway.

Below it there was an inscription in Russian:

  
_A demon was crafty and wile_  
To the top of the palace he climbed  
And mistaken by some as their king  
They proved their point by hanging him.

Crowley couldn’t stop. He was laughing so hard that his cheekbones hurt. At first, this reaction made Foma swell with pride, but then he started looking at the demon worriedly.  
  
“Aaahhhh, damn, I _can’t_!” Crowley managed barely audibly. He forced himself to calm down, but then glanced at the picture once more and burst into laughter again. “That’s fantastic. Do you know, my dear sir, that you are a genius?”  
  
“Er... You mean, you like it?”  
  
“I love it! Listen up, can you make more of these by tomorrow morning, and I’ll send Vanya from the tavern to go and spread them around the city?”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“What do you mean _what for_? For fun, of course! People are depressed now; life seems bleak to them, as if they were the only ones in trouble. But they’ll see these, get interested in the execution, learn about something exciting – I mean the wings and horns, not the hanging... They will laugh at the joke, which is making fun of them, of the tsar, and of the tragedy too... They will admire the artist’s skill...” Crowley looked at Foma meaningfully.  
  
The truth was that all of this – as well as the things he was going to put down in his report – were just an excuse. What he _really_ wanted to do was tease Aziraphale.  
  
“So?”  
  
“What do you say, Nikita?” Foma asked, which surprised Crowley. From the first sight, the printer had seemed to be much more thoughtful, quick-minded, and provident man, and yet he was asking the merry warrior for advice concerning his own fame.

Crowley guessed that Foma wasn’t asking about what would be the _wise_ thing to do; he was asking about what would be the _right_ thing to do. Crowley found himself looking expectantly at Nikita too.  
  
“Ah, _what the hell!_ – there’s no harm in having some fun!” Nikita waved his hand, and Crowley thought that he had chosen his words quite well.

***

  
Crowley’s heart was hammering so wildly that it was hitting the flask hidden against his chest.   
  
_I’ll probably get a bruise there_, the demon thought, but decided not to calm down the frightened human organ. During his time on Earth, he had come to learn that some natural reactions of the body actually helped to cope with some other feelings. For example, goosebumps helped keep the edge off the cold.

And the uncontrollable pounding of one’s heart distracted one a bit from spirals of awful panic.  
  
He was in the dungeons of a monastery. He hadn’t felt so claustrophobic in ages. There wasn’t a single window here – not a single way out, only a narrow corridor through which he had entered.

The stones smelt of dampness and oozed water and... holiness. While walking down the stairs, Crowley slipped on a slick step and grabbed at the wall. He barely managed to bite his tongue to hold back the scream as an ugly smoking burn spread across his palm. Crowley eased the pain as much as was possible and hurried further ahead, trying to stay away from the walls. If anyone realised he was a demon, the only thing they’d need to do was corner him – literally.

Why the hell had he even come here?

It wasn’t that he owed something to Aziraphale, he told himself. 

They had fun yesterday as they had many times before. And this was not their first adventure that had gone a bit wrong.

_Only this one went wrong because of me, _Crowley remembered wretchedly_. I shouldn’t have persuaded Aziraphale to take such risks while he was so weak_.

But, on the other hand, Aziraphale was a grown-up angel; he could decide for himself, couldn’t he? He never did anything he didn’t want to do.

This thought didn’t stop Crowley from still feeling guilty, as he remembered how easy it had been to make Aziraphale do what he wanted as soon as they’d hit upon the subject of Ivan’s library. He knew all too well that Aziraphale would do anything for books

So, yes, if Crowley were completely honest with himself, he didn’t like being responsible for Aziraphale’s upcoming discorporation.

It didn’t help that he could still remember Aziraphale in that stupid hat with horns when he had been convincing Crowley to fly away before the monks and the priests arrived.

The angel had saved him. He had been drunk, hardly able to stand straight, and about to be arrested, and he had still saved Crowley.

So, maybe, he did owe Aziraphale after all. A bit.

Crowley knew that he wouldn’t be able to do anything for Aziraphale here and now. It was hard enough to send the guards to sleep without drawing attention to himself. This was a monastery, for Satan’s sake; he risked too much, and Aziraphale still didn’t have enough magic for escaping. But he would try to do something tomorrow. So, he had to make sure the angel wasn’t too angry at him and would let Crowley save him the next day.

Maybe the wine would help? That’s why he had the flask tucked away in his inner pocket. Crowley had already sipped from it a couple of times, as he had to reach the cell without going mad with fear. But it was still encouragingly heavy.  
  
“Did you think this would cheer me up? Or, what, make amends for what you did?”

“Well, I was hoping...” All the speeches that Crowley had constructed while making his way into the dungeons flew out of his mind as soon as he saw Aziraphale.   
  
The angel stood up from the pile of straw in the corner where he had been sitting and came up to the iron bars. He looked horrible. His robe was covered with soot and dirt and partly burnt through. His face was unnaturally pale in the darkness, and only Aziraphale’s impossible eyes shone as brightly as ever, despite the dark circles under them.

Crowley bit his lip guiltily.

“Well, you were wrong! This stuff has already done enough harm.”

Crowley thought that Aziraphale was going to say: _“And so did you.”_ He didn’t.

“Oh, come on, angel! It was fun!”

“Oh, yes, it was. Maybe _you_’ll even have fun tomorrow morning if you don’t have more exciting things to do.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to… I thought we both enjoyed it. Look, even if it went a bit downhill, it’s not my fault that you couldn’t part with your precious books on time.”

“I’m not saying it was your fault!” snapped Aziraphale. “I’m not angry with you, Crowley. I’m angry with myself. It’s your job to tempt and distract people from doing good deeds. But I – _I _should have been stronger. What sort of angel am I? How will these people survive the plague now?” He went back into the shadow again, probably intending on sitting down and drowning himself in self-pity to death. But Crowley stopped him.

“Do you still think I asked you to go with me because I wanted to _tempt_ you?” he asked, insulted. “I told you that wasn’t the case!”

“Even if you didn’t do it on purpose, it doesn’t make it any less tempting!”

“Well, then you are bad at resisting temptations, Guardian of the bloody Eastern Gate!”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Crowley was furious. Aziraphale was saying nonsense, and though it was a very typical kind of nonsense people say when they feel ashamed of their recent drinking, it didn’t make it less hurtful.

“That’s stupid,” Crowley said. “I’m not having any of this. I don’t even know why I came here. Surely there are more pleasant places in Moscow than some shitty damp monastery and a nicer company than a sober whiny angel. Good luck, Aziraphale. I’ll leave you the wine, in case you change your mind.” He crouched down to put the flask on the floor as, at the same time, Aziraphale suddenly stepped towards him.

“Wait a minute... What do you mean, _‘a monastery’_? You’re saying that we are in a monastery _now_?”  
  
“Well, yeah. The prison burnt down with the palace.”

“But... how... why did you come here? Damn, Crowley, this can be dangerous!”  
  
“Oh, believe me, I know!” Crowley let out a nervous laugh and waved his burnt hand, which had just barely started to cover with soft new skin. Aziraphale snatched his hand with unexpected agility.  
  
“Ow!” the demon yelped, but Aziraphale brought his palm very carefully to his eyes.  
  
“Is this... holy water?..” he whispered.

“Sort of... condensate. Low percentage. It’s nothing. It seems like these guys are real believers. You should be proud of them.”  
  
“It’s not _nothing_,” Aziraphale frowned. “I can’t imagine what you were thinking.”  
  
“I was thinking that it would be funny if you were hanged with a hangover. If my plan ‘A’ doesn’t work, of course.”  
  
“Oh, Crowley...” The angel seemed to have completely missed his pun, just staring at the burn with a pained expression, as if it were his own hand. Then Crowley’s last remark probably reached his mind, and he looked up at Crowley, studying his face suspiciously. “Er, what plan A?”

“It’s a surprise,” Crowley said, grinning nervously. “Unless you don’t want any more surprises from me?”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s hand and carefully let go of it.

“Of course I do,” he sighed and smiled, giving up. Crowley felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Aziraphale didn’t hate him. “Just promise not to do anything stupid, please.”

“I promise that we both will have something to remember.” Crowley winked.

“That’s exactly the opposite of what I asked. And, speaking of memories, I’d _really_ like to remember something. Why was I wet?”

“You wanted to warn the people about the fire and climbed up a burning belfry.”  
  
“Really? Oh, yes, I sort of remember that. I’ve never thought I had so much heroism in me!”  
  
“You had much alcohol in you,” Crowley couldn’t stop himself.  
  
“You know what they say here: what a sober man thinks, a drunk man says. I think that must apply to the actions too. And yet, that doesn’t explain the water.”  
  
“Well, I kind of... extinguished you.”  
  
“Oh. That was awfully kind of you. In this case, as you are partly responsible for it, you won’t be angry... It is a little bit wet.” Aziraphale put a hand into his pocket and took out a slightly wet, but otherwise completely unharmed letter. He handed it to Crowley.

“This is...” Crowley unfolded the letter with the signature and seal of Ivan the Terrible. “Angel! I don’t know what to say... You… Thank you...”  
  
It was absolutely unbearable. Crowley had come here to lighten his conscience, and instead he found himself owing Aziraphale even more. This impossible, exhausted angel, barely standing on his feet behind the bars of the prison cell, had somehow managed to do more for him than Crowley had been able to do while being free.  
  
“You’re welcome.” Aziraphale smiled. “It’s the least I can do to thank you.”  
  
“What for?” Crowley was dumbfounded.  
  
“For freeing me,” the angel shrugged. Crowley was still processing this unable to understand how Aziraphale’s mood could have changed so quickly, but Aziraphale suddenly leaned over to snatch the flask that Crowley had put on the floor earlier. “All right, I’ll take it. And you, go away, right now, before something worse happens.”  
  
Crowley wanted to say that it was unlikely that anything worse could happen to Aziraphale, but then saw that the angel was looking at his hand again, and realized in surprise that Aziraphale was talking about him.  
  
Crowley was already leaving when he heard Aziraphale’s voice.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“A great adventure it was, my dear boy!”  
  
“Oh, yes!” Crowley smirked.  
  
“I just wish I could read more of those books,” Aziraphale said with a sad smile.  
  
“Well, maybe you will, in your next life.” Crowley shrugged. “Don’t worry, angel, it’s not the last adventure I’ve prepared for you.”  
  
“I bet it’s not.”

Crowley curtsied jokingly, and turned around again, fearing that if he stayed any longer he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He might do something reckless, like using the rest of his demonic powers to break the bloody bars of the angel’s cell.  
  
“Be careful, my dear,” he heard as he was turning the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just look at this amazing illustration of this chapter by curious_Lissa: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900049/chapters/60252466#workskin!


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley didn’t know where Bolotnaya Square was; before that, all the executions he had attended had mostly taken place in Kitay-gorod. But he didn’t even need to ask the way; he could just follow the stream of people flowing in one direction – to watch the hanging of a magician.

Besides, the broadsheets helped. Although the tsar’s people went around trying to tear them off, they were still hanging everywhere, from the Kremlin to the place of execution. Aziraphale’s face in the tsar’s hat watched him from the walls of the buildings and shops, from fences and trees. Crowley even noticed one pinned to the especially broad back of a man who passed him by.  
  
Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle. He didn’t know, though, if it was real amusement or just nerves as he was going to the execution of his... longtime colleague. Anyway, he couldn’t wait for Aziraphale to see all this.

  
***

Aziraphale couldn’t wait for the morning to come. For someone unfamiliar with the situation, it might seem quite strange, considering he was to be hanged at dawn. But, for one thing, it was not the worst way of discorporation and returning to Heaven. And besides…

Besides, he was worried sick, wondering if Crowley had managed to get out of the monastery alive and well. _Why the hell did he have to come here at all?_ Aziraphale thought, sipping from the flask and feeling doubly grateful to Crowley and his stupid actions – for the wine, and for the concern.

The wine was not really helping with his worries, though. The angel tried to convince himself that if Crowley had been caught or killed Aziraphale would have heard about it. But the walls of the monastery were so thick that he barely heard the steps of the monks and guards.

In any case, when they finally came for him, Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. They put shackles on him and took him out into the sunlight.  
  
The air still smelled vaguely of smoke. The sun rising from the horizon looked like the last spark of the fire, but its outline was blurry in the haze, like the lines on the paintings of that Italian, Leonardo, who had been such a good friend of Crowley’s.

This thought made him look around, searching for a glimpse of the familiar dark-haired head. But Crowley was nowhere to be seen. Neither did he appear when Aziraphale was set down in a cart with a wooden sign on which all his “crimes” were written.

Crowley wasn’t there when Aziraphale was being transferred in a boat across the Moskva River.

Aziraphale didn’t know if he should feel angry or worried, so he did both just in case. What he didn’t feel was the fear of death.

When they were approaching the square, he noticed that people were pointing fingers at him. Actually, nothing was surprising about that, considering the things he was accused of and the fate that was awaiting him. The strange part was that those people were holding sheets of paper, and they were looking between Aziraphale and the sheets as if consulting them. They were saying something, shaking or nodding their heads. Many of them laughed. Aziraphale tried to peek at the paper a merchant walking past him held, but couldn’t quite make out whatever was printed on it.

He turned away in annoyance and immediately faced... himself.  
  
A similar sheet of paper was nailed to a wall of a house they were passing by. There were several lines printed on it – the quality of printing was rather impressive considering Aziraphale’s knowledge of the general level of printing technology in Russia. And above them, a portrait was placed. Aziraphale’s portrait. In the damned tsar’s hat. With horns. Aziraphale wished he could die on the spot.

_If Raphael or Gabriel learn about this...___  
  
“Great likeness, isn’t it?” he heard a cheeky voice say from above him. Crowley was on horseback directly beside the cart, one hand showing a broadsheet to some envoy, and waving secretly to the angel with the other.  
  
He appeared utterly and shamelessly contented with himself.

Aziraphale wanted to be outraged, to shout something incriminating or at least grit his teeth. Instead, he just sighed with relief. The bastard was okay. Now he could start being angry with him.

“I think I’ll keep it as a souvenir,” Crowley said, eyes still locked on Aziraphale. Then he folded the paper and shoved it into his doublet pocket. “I know someone who will beg me to give him this relic for whatever price I name. But I won’t give it up.” With those words, the demon smiled wickedly and winked at Aziraphale.

The angel rolled his eyes. Maybe he should stay in Heaven longer if _that_ was what would be awaiting him on the Earth.  
  
“Where are our seats?” Crowley asked another envoy and rode after him to the wooden ramp not far from the scaffold where the benches for honoured guests stood. However, before disappearing in the crowd the demon looked back at Aziraphale one more time. And now his gaze was serious and tense, and the angel could have sworn that for a short moment Crowley’s eyes flashed with familiar yellow flames.

_You’re up to something, aren’t you? ___  
  
It was odd, but that guess made Aziraphale more worried than the execution itself. And that was because he knew very well how all of Crowley’s crazy ideas ended up. The demon was a great strategist; he could make up such brilliant schemes tempting humans and messing up the angel’s plans that not only Heaven but even Hell had a hard time conceiving of them.

But when it came to acting spontaneously... Crowley always managed to choose the most dangerous, stupidly self-sacrificial way, which inevitably ended up in disaster – both for the demon himself and for the people around him. Aziraphale silently cursed Crowley, and pointedly turned his mind to worrying about other people. Deep in these thoughts, he didn’t notice when the cart brought him to the scaffold with a gallows.  
  
“Hey, you, come on, move!” The executioner pushed Aziraphale rudely in the back. He swayed forward but stood up without a word and turned to the gallows.  
  
He wished it would be over already.

Immortality or no immortality, that didn’t mean that it was not painful or frightening to die. Every time. Who knew how skilful this executioner was? And who knew if the discorporation would go as smoothly as always, since he had only a small amount of magic that he’d managed to save? Who knew what awaited him in Heaven? Who knew how long he’d have to stay there, and what body he would get this time...

The number of unpleasant questions was so large that for a moment Aziraphale even hoped cowardly that Crowley’s undoubtedly crazy plan would work. However, he immediately waved that hope off. The only thing he should hope for was that Crowley wouldn’t do anything reckless which would kill even more people than already had to die today.  
  
Aziraphale walked up the steps to the scaffold. The executioner threw the rope around his neck. The angel looked at the crowd that had frozen, waiting. For a moment, his gaze stopped at the tsar whose seat was so close to the scaffold that Aziraphale could clearly see his eyes. But he was looking for Crowley. The demon was nowhere to be seen.

***  
  


Crowley couldn’t watch. While the sentence was being read and the executioner was tightening the noose around the angel’s neck, the only thing Crowley could think of was that the day before _he_ had been doing the same thing. He remembered that moment so vividly, it made Crowley feel as if it were _he_ who was standing next to the convict now. It was _him_ who had brought Aziraphale here, and _he_ who was tightening the noose on his neck. He could almost feel the rope in his hands.  
  
And then he suddenly met Aziraphale’s eyes. The angel hadn’t found him at once, probably expecting to see him on the seat next to the tsar and not on the fence of a nearby merchant’s house where Crowley had made himself comfortable. Here, sitting almost right behind Ivan’s back and only a little bit to the right, he could watch three spots of the square in quick succession.

When Aziraphale saw him, he suddenly gave him that impossible smile which had everything in it – childish excitement, unruly madness, even almost sly mischief. Everything, except for tasteless heavenly decency.  
  
Crowley barely kept his jaw from dropping. His first thought was: _How could he even smile at such a time?! _But then Aziraphale nodded, pointing at something on the fence. _Oh, sure,_ – he was sitting right above one of the broadsheets. The demon laughed and asked with a gesture:  
  
_Well, how do you like it?  
_  
_Is this your work?_ Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.  
  
_How could it be? Well, maybe I just offered a little help to someone.  
_  
_Of course, you did._ The angel rolled his eyes, and then made a face and nodded at Crowley. _What else could I expect from you, old fool?__  
_  
_I did it for you, actually, _pouted Crowley_. To make a big event of your execution!_

_Sure, sure_. Aziraphale shook his head. And then he looked at Crowley firmly and seriously with his clear, blue eyes, smiled again and moved his lips soundlessly_: “Thank you.”_  
  
Crowley didn’t even notice that he was smiling back. And the angel hadn’t learnt about the other surprises yet... By the way, about that... Crowley made himself tear his gaze from the gallows and turned to the two roofs ahead of him, on either side of the square, where two man-shaped figures appeared.

The clerk finished reading the sentence. The executioner came up to Aziraphale.

The sun had risen, but it wasn’t yet visible from the square. Just a few embers of fleecy clouds were smouldering in the ashes of the sky. And against those ashen heavens, the figures on the roofs suddenly spread their wings.  
  
“Look! There! Demons!” shouted a boy’s voice in the crowd. Crowley praised Vanya for his excellent timing.

A rumble went through the crowd; half of the people turned their heads to the right, and half to the left. Then everyone looked up.  
  
“They’ve come for him!”

“Divine punishment!”

“Stupid woman, how is it divine, if they are demons, for God’s sake!”

“Run!”  
  
The square erupted in chaos. The tsar jumped off his throne, grabbing his staff so tightly that his knuckles went white. He looked from one winged figure on the roof to another.

Aziraphale also turned his head from left to right, trying to see what everyone else was pointing at. Crowley saw the angel shudder and take as much of a step backwards as he could on the hangman’s stool. It was hard to make out the colour of the wings from the distance. Maybe Aziraphale thought that Hell had set a trap for him using his moment of weakness to finish him once and forever. Or maybe he thought that his own bosses had come to rescue him. Crowley scoffed at the thought that the latter was probably more terrifying for the angel than the former.  
  
He couldn’t lose time. While no one was looking his way, Crowley spread his own, real wings and flew up above the square. Just one quick dive – to grab Aziraphale, cut the rope, and fly away. If he was quick enough, it was unlikely that anyone would have time to make a shot, let alone find holy water.

But then something unexpected happened. Somebody shouted, pointing at one of the roofs:  
  
“Look, he is going to fly!”  
  
“Shit! We did not agree to that!” Crowley choked. The crowd gasped. But the “demon” who jumped from the roof didn’t fly up, but fell straight down.  
  
Crowley had to act fast.  
  
He knew that Nikita was not ready to fly yet. His wings were too thin to hold his weight, and besides, the man should have practised to use them first.

The craftsmen had just been supposed to distract the crowd during Crowley’s rescue of Aziraphale. They were _not_ supposed to jump.

The fake demon was rushing downwards with frightening speed. He was trying to slow his descent with his wings, but he was falling too fast and didn’t have the strength to flatten the wings.

“He’s falling down!”

“No, it must be a trick!”

“Get back, he’s going to hit the ground!”  
  
Crowley was losing time. Now, while all the heads were turned to falling Nikita, it would be easy to go down, get Aziraphale and fly away with him as far from this mess as possible. But something was telling Crowley that if he sacrificed the life of an innocent fool to save Aziraphale’s temporary corporation, the angel wouldn’t thank him.

Besides, Crowley felt a sudden unpleasant wave of guilt and pity towards this genius fool. He just wanted to fly. _Dreams mustn’t kill_, Crowley thought. _It’s wrong_. Otherwise, everyone would be afraid to dream, and the tempters would have nothing to do on the Earth. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he dived at high speed and rushed towards the falling man.

“There’s one more!”

“He’s gonna save him!” 

“Got him!”  
  
The crowd gasped as Crowley grabbed Nikita just before he hit the ground, and then made a sharp turn, going up again – much slower this time.

He heard cries of fear and happiness, and someone even started to clap their hands. Then one voice said:  
  
“It’s the magician! He is doing all this. Kill him and the demons will go away!”

Crowley spun around in the air as quickly as the weight in his hands allowed him. And in the very last second he saw...  
  
...The tsar’s eyes, which had been watching him intently, looked away the moment before he met Crowley’s gaze.

...Ivan turned to the scaffold and waved his hand giving the order to the executioner.  
  
...Aziraphale gave Crowley a calm and almost satisfied nod.  
  
The next moment, the executioner kicked the stool out from under Aziraphale’s feet. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and threw himself into the sky.

“M-my lord?” mumbled Nikita in fear. Crowley looked down at him, and the young man gasped as he met the yellow and furious eyes of the demon.

Crowley brought them to the bank of the Moskva river, far from the square and the terrified people. Only then did he turn to Nikita and shout at him.  
  
“_This_ was _not_ what we’d agreed on, damn you!”

“I... I... I... th-thought it would distract them b-b-better... Wanted to risk it for a good cause...”  
  
“I told you the wings needed improvements! But no, you decided to show bloody off... My f... companion died because of you.”  
  
“I’m s-so sorry... But why did you save me? You should have saved _him_. You went over the plan too!”

Crowley was so astonished that it became hard to be angry at the same time. Was this guy trying to quibble with a demon, even knowing as he did this demon _was_ a demon? Crowley had heard local folklore fairytales about Ivan the Fool who outwitted devils, but he had never yet experienced it himself.   
  
“If I had sacrificed your life saving his, he would have killed me. I hope now he is satisfied,” Crowley grumbled.  
  
“But isn’t he already...” In the middle of the sentence Nikita realised. “Ooh, so he is also..?”  
  
“Yeah, he is also,” Crowley nodded, but then shook his head. “I mean no. He is an angel. I am a demon.”  
  
“An angel... a demon,” Nikita echoed reverently. He seemed to have understood that nothing was going to happen to him, and it made him even more fearless. “So, those priests are right – all new things do come from the devil.” He winked at Crowley.  
  
“Looks like it. Does that mean you aren’t going to fly anymore?” the demon asked grumpily.  
  
“Oh, I absolutely am!” Nikita grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another gorgeous illustration by curious_Lissa: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900049/chapters/60252547#workskin


	7. Epilogue

_London, 1587_

Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale for several years. His bosses Up There had probably not been pleased with the circumstances of his return and had sent him to some godforsaken place again. Crowley wasn’t about to chase the angel around all the bleak corners of the Earth just to cheer him up, and he wasn’t done with feeling guilty about their previous adventure. The seventies had come to an end, and, since his own mission had been completed successfully, Crowley was allowing himself to relax a bit and thoroughly enjoy the England that he had helped build. Obviously, he wasn’t enjoying it at the court of Her ageing Majesty, but at a tavern on the south bank of the Thames. A new theatre had opened here recently, and all the artistic rabble was using this very place to get hammered.

On that day, little Will who worked at the theatre’s stables was sitting at Crowley’s table. He drank almost nothing and just looked at Crowley in awe, hanging upon his every word as the demon told him about his journeys, faraway countries, and epochs that had long since become history. Today, he had decided to share the legend he had heard on his way through Denmark to Russia. This made him remember Aziraphale again and wonder where on earth the angel was now.  
  
Will left briefly to bring Crowley another pint, and, when he returned, he stopped uncertainly by the table, fidgeting from foot to foot.

“Er, master Crowley?”  
  
“Yes, Willy?” he answered, taking his beer from the lad.  
  
“There’s a gentleman at the door, asking for you. Quite a well-dressed one...”

Crowley had been doing his best to avoid the well-dressed gentlemen, whose visits always meant business, and had so far managed to evade them by hiding in London’s areas of ill repute; usually they looked for him instead at his luxurious mansion in the fashionable part of the city. He frowned, gave the glass back to Will, and wiped at his lips.  
  
“You’re leaving?” the stablehand asked disappointedly.  
  
“Aye. If you hadn’t wanted me to leave, you shouldn’t have delivered the bad news.”  
  
“But... How did it all end? With the Prince?”  
  
“Make it up yourself.” He shrugged, opening the door.  
  
The _well-dressed gentleman_ stood facing the river and leaning on a walking cane. Crowley recognized him immediately. He was wearing an expensive and sophisticated suit. Crowley smiled, pleased: at least that was something good about discorporations – when Aziraphale returned to Earth he had to change all his wardrobe for the new body, so at least for the first couple of years he dressed almost fashionably.

He was about the same height as the last time Crowley had seen him, but noticeably rounder and a bit wider in shoulders. The demon stopped not far from him.  
  
“You’re looking nice, angel,” he said, smiling. “Death has done you good.”  
  
Aziraphale didn’t turn around at once, and Crowley guessed that he must be taking a mental deep breath.  
  
“Well, hello, my dear,” he said, turning. When he saw that Crowley was smiling, he beamed too. It was amazing: whatever his face looked like, his eyes – crystal blue, almost sparkling – had always stayed the same, and there was something eternal and unchanging about his smile too. As if they didn’t belong to Aziraphale’s human body, but to his true self. And Crowley knew that, no matter how Aziraphale changed, he would always be _himself_.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” the angel continued. “I thought you preferred... er... cleaner places.”  
  
Crowley laughed.  
  
“Don’t worry, I don’t live here. Well, maybe just sometimes, when a matinee is followed by an evening show, and the evening show is followed by a party, and the party – a new matinee. Anyway, you are right: such a fine gentleman as yourself shouldn’t stay in such a ditch. Come on, I’ll show you my house.”

They took a bottle of wine and went to the other side of the Themes, to Crowley’s place. On their way, Aziraphale told Crowley how he had to make a report to Raphael about the loss of his corporation.  
  
“I told her I had been saving plague victims and had been accused of witchcraft.” He went red. Crowley burst into laughter, thinking that the angel hadn’t used to blush so easily before. He also decided that he definitely liked that.

“Well, actually it was sort of true,” Crowley said with a shrug. “No one asked you to specify if one was the result of the other.”  
  
After a pause that was so long that Crowley decided to open the bottle, Aziraphale said:  
  
“You know, that... er... rescue plan of yours...”  
  
Oh, there it was: Crowley had felt that the angel had been itching to start this conversation since they’d met, but hadn’t dared to do so until now. Crowley threw the cork into the river and took a sip right from the bottle. Aziraphale didn’t even comment on it. Instead, he continued.

“It was rather... er... moving.”  
  
Crowley choked on the wine.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“I’m saying, I was moved when you suddenly...”  
  
“No, no, no, I don’t want to hear that, angel! It was bloody stupid, useless, daring, bold, crazy, hilarious, beautiful – anything but... But the thing you’ve just said. What are you thinking? I am a demon, after all!”  
  
“After all that, I was thinking you’re my friend, Crowley.” Aziraphale smiled calmly and took the bottle from him. He made a sip and closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. “Oh, how long it has been since I last tasted this magnificent vice!.. Besides,” he returned to the topic which Crowley was longing to leave behind as soon as possible. “Saving an innocent man is definitely a truly demonic deed.” He let out a short laugh.  
  
“I knew that, otherwise, I would hear about it for the rest of my eternity,” Crowley grumbled.  
  
“And you were right.”  
  
“It still made little difference. A month later that fool made himself another set of wings, using my measurements. He climbed up the belfry of Alexandrovskaya Sloboda and jumped down. And can you imagine that – he flew!”  
  
“Yeah, I heard about that…”  
  
“He landed safely. However, the tsar ordered his men to seize and execute him. Ivan wrote something like: _A man is not a bird, he hath no wings. And if he gets himself wings of wood thus goes he against nature. For that friendship with evil forces, he is to be beheaded. And his creation made with the devil’s aid is to be burnt._ Just imagine – they even arranged a special service to drive the demons out of the wings. Of course, I didn’t get anywhere close, but still, in a way the old sod appeared to be right – the lad did fly because of me. And lost his head because of me...”  
  
Crowley tried to make it sound as if he was proud of his actions.  
  
“Don’t worry.” Aziraphale gave his arm a light squeeze. “He is Up There, at our place. I made sure they’d look after him.”  
  
“Oh? Really? That’s demonic help for you.” Crowley rolled his eyes, though he did feel much more cheerful.  
  
“How do you think, will they ever fly?”  
  
“Pfft, of course they will! Leonardo in Italy, Nikita in Russia, who knows whatever is happening in the East... If they’ve started to dream about something, then...”  
  
“Then it’s inevitable.”

“Well, here we are.”  
  
Crowley’s servant, a silent old man, opened the door for them. They took off their capes and Crowley led the way towards the study.  
  
“Nice house,” Aziraphale said, looking around.  
  
“Thanks. And where are you staying?”  
  
“We-e-ell, nowhere yet.” The angel shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed.  
  
“Wanna stay here for the night, get some rest?” Crowley narrowed his eyes, preparing to start the temptation.  
  
“Well, actually, I didn’t plan on resting. I thought we’d be... er... celebrating my return to Earth?”  
  
“Oh, who is tempting who now?” The demon burst into laughter. “Touché. Well, and this is my study. Remember the Russian rose I brought from Moscow?” He gestured to a small bush with flowers resting on the windowsill. “It will soon need more space.”  
  
“It’s cosy here,” noted Aziraphale. “Even... too cosy... for you. Can’t figure it out what’s wrong about this place…”  
  
Aziraphale was looking around himself, and Crowley was barely holding back laughter.  
  
“I’ve got it!” finally exclaimed the angel, and he slapped his forehead. “What do you need all these bookcases for?”  
  
“To keep books, of course.”  
  
“What books, you don’t...”  
  
“Your books, angel.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Come on.” Crowley unceremoniously grabbed Aziraphale by the sleeve and pulled him towards a massive oaken bookcase.

He opened both leaves at once, abruptly and solemnly, as one opens a wardrobe with a wedding dress in front of the bride. Or as a chef lifts the top of the dish off his culinary masterpiece, or as a magician pulls a sheet off the assistant whom he’s just cut in half to show that she is alive and well... 

“Look!”  
  
There were books sitting on the shelves in front of Aziraphale. These were old volumes with edges darkened by time. Most of them had richly decorated covers, with pearls, gilding, and silver filigree. Their ornaments could make icons in Orthodox churches grow green with envy.  
  
Aziraphale finally seemed to realise...  
  
Holding his breath, he took one of the books from the shelf with trembling hands and opened to the first page.

“_Itkh_... _Itkhyphaleica_... Virgil... I thought all the copies had been lost...”  
  
He looked at Crowley. The demon was smiling, but with that kind of smile that didn’t give away his feelings. Or, rather, it gave away some feeling that Aziraphale had never been able to identify.  
  
“Tacitus... Oh dear, there are so many historians. In such a great condition. And this...” He pulled a Bible decorated with precious stones from the shelf. “It’s in Greek...”  
  
“Many of them are,” Crowley pointed out casually.  
  
“Crowley, is this..?”  
  
“The Library of Ivan the Fourth, aye.” The demon smiled, enjoying Aziraphale’s astonishment.  
  
“But... how?”

“Relocated them to a safer place, while you were busy saving Moscow. I didn’t have the time or energy to take them all, so I chose the oldest and most sparkly ones. They would have been buried under the rocks anyway, or even destroyed completely by the fire. So it’s not even theft, technically, which annoys me, of course...”

“Crowley... you... you...”  
  
“Woah, woah, you aren’t going to cry, are you? It’s still stealing-a-treasure not saving-a-baby-from-the-fire. Any demon would have done that!”  
  
That was when the angel let out a piteous sob and unexpectedly flung his arms around Crowley. Well, one arm, to be precise, because the other one was still holding the Bible, which cut into Crowley’s ribs with its pearl-covered edge, making the situation even more awkward.  
  
“No,” muttered Aziraphale. “Not any demon.”  
  
“Er... Well, anyway, they are yours. When you get yourself a place, feel free to come and take them. I hope it will make you buy an inappropriately luxurious house, and I’ll get a commendation for corrupting you.”  
  
“But what about you?” Aziraphale finally released Crowley, wiping awkwardly at his eyes. “Don’t you want to take something for yourself?”  
  
“Oh, no, you’re right – without all these bookcases my study will feel more like _my_ study. Besides, I also brought a souvenir from Russia for myself...”  
  
“Really? What is it?”  
  
Crowley paused dramatically.

Then he reached for a folder on the shelf, where it stood among the books. He opened it and took out a sheet of paper, holding it as carefully and almost as reverently as Aziraphale was holding the Bible. Then he unfolded it and showed it to Aziraphale.  
  
“Oh, no, not this thing!” the angel moaned.  
  
The lower part of the text was torn off, probably when the paper had been ripped off the wall. But the picture and several words could still be seen perfectly.  
  
Crowley was holding a portrait of Aziraphale wearing the hat of the Russian tsar. And directly above it, printed in shaky letters that looked as though they were dancing merrily on the hot embers of the smouldering Moscow, were the words:  
  
  
  


_“A demon was crafty”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The last chapter will be Autor's Note.
> 
> ***  
Check Aziraphale's portrait in the Hat by brilliant curious_Lissa: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900049/chapters/60252565#workskin


	8. Author's Note

Hi again! Welcome to the Author’s Note. It’s mostly about some historical references that I have used in the fic.

First of all, almost all of the historical facts and events mentioned here really took place, and most of the OCs are real historical figures. What I did make up, though, was the timeline, because of course, so many important and awful things didn’t happen in such a short period of time! – in reality, it took about a year (1570–1571) for all of them to happen.

**Chapter I.**

1\. _Names_. I’ll start with this, because in a way one name became the starting point of this fic.

As you’ve probably noticed, I use a lot of Russian names here, and sometimes I use the shortened forms as well. Many Russian short forms of the names have either a pejorative (-k-) or an affectionate (-ochk-) suffix. So short forms often may express either contempt or affection. 

In the very beginning, Ivan calls Crowley _Anton_, which is the Russian version of Anthony, and then uses a diminutive form of this name – Antoshka. It doesn’t sound too impolite in ordinary modern language – maybe even vice versa – but when applied to a nobleman by a monarch it’s really not very nice. (Also, the way Ivan calls Jenkinson – _Anton Jankin_ – is the way he calls him in his letter to Elizabeth.) Oh, and he pronounces _‘Krolik’_ instead of _‘Crowley’_ because there is a Russian word _krolik_ (кролик) which sounds very close to _Crowley_ and means ‘_a rabbit’_.

And last but not least is the Russian affectionate diminutive form of Aziraphale’s name – _Zirochka. _One day (about a year and a half ago) I was talking to a friend of mine from Ukraine about how Aziraphale’s name is sometimes shortened to _Zira_. Then we thought that the pejorative form would be _Zirka_, which means ‘a star’ in Ukrainian. When we got to the point when we started calling him _Zirochka_ – which is an extremely affectionate form of the name – I told ImprobableDreams900 about this. She said that I absolutely should write a fic where Crowley would call Aziraphale _Zirochka_. And then she remembered about that episode in the 10th Chapter of “A Memory of Eden” when Aziraphale and Crowley recall their misadventures in Moscow a long time ago. 

2\. _Anthony Jenkinson_. He was an English traveller and ambassador. He made several journeys to Moscow and was indeed asked to bring Ivan’s proposal to Queen Elizabeth I. When I learnt about him, I just couldn’t help but use him somewhere. I mean – _Anthony J._ – the coincidence was too cool not to be used. ;) (You can read about him [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Jenkinson#Fourth_Expedition,_1571).)

3\. _Thomas Randolph._ A few years after Jenkinson, The Embassy of Thomas Randolph arrived in Russia, and that was when Ivan learnt that Elizabeth wasn’t interested in marriage with him.

I didn’t pay too much attention to this character, as he was not terribly important for me. What was important were those typical traditions of receiving the ambassadors in Russia. So all those are historically correct (from greeting them with music and feasts to the facts that they were very strictly watched while being in Russia, and that the tsar washed his hands after touching them).

4._“Count Anthony Crowley with a gift – Order of the Garter, presented by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.” _That strange pendant really exists, and it looks like this.

  


It is one of the treasures of the museum of Armoury Chamber in the Kremlin. No one knows for sure what it is when it appeared or where it came from. For a long time, it was indeed thought that to be an “Order of the Garter” given by Elizabeth to Ivan. However, it doesn’t look at all like a real Order. It was probably made in Germany by a Protestant master and then brought to Russia by one of the Russian ambassadors in England already in the 17th century. Anyway, this version isn’t 100% proved either, so why not use the first legend? ;)

Oh, and another interesting detail of the pendant is that unlike other images of St George; here he is depicted without armour.

5\. _The feast_. I mostly describe the Russian table of the 16th century from the POV of the foreigners and Crowley – who has been a fan of civilized countries since ancient Egypt and Rome – thought, just in case, I wanted to point out that it wasn’t really quite as bad as it sounds. :D As you’ll read later, Russian cuisine has its strong sides and is mostly delicious (you just shouldn’t eat all of those things at once!). However, the etiquette was, in fact, rather weird in those days – starting with the lack of spoons.

6\. _Ivan IV and Elizabeth I_. They indeed used to write letters to each other, Elizabeth being the only woman Ivan actually wrote to. In their letters, they mostly discussed politics, but also some private matters. The whole business with Ivan’s proposal here is historically accurate (except for the dates – it had happened about a year earlier). By the way, Ivan’s letters are absolutely fascinating. He had a very unique personal style. And the most interesting thing is that in describing the events of his life, he somehow almost manages to make his readers sympathize with him! Even though we all know that he’d done lots of horrible things and wasn’t even a very good ruler. But he is just so passionate and emotional in his letters that you can’t help but feel everything from his perspective.

(Here’s the most famous [letter from Ivan to Elizabeth](http://eng.history.ru/content/view/131/87/), but if you want to know more about him as a person, I’d recommend you to read his letters to Andrey Kurbsky.)

7\. _The oprichniks_. In 1565, Ivan divided the country into two parts – zemshchina and _oprichnina_. This was done because Ivan tried to suppress the growing power of some boyar families.

Oprichnina (about 20 cities and even some parts of Moscow) belonged to people whom Ivan considered his most loyal subjects. They were like a religious order and an army at the same time. Mostly they were meant to suppress any opposition of the tsar’s regime. Oprichnina wasn’t ruled by the Boyar Council like zemshchina; instead, it had its own independent administrative institution. The money that came from oprichnina went straight to the tsar’s treasury. Besides, Ivan selected 300 _oprichniks_ to be the tsar’s private army, his guards whom he trusted.

8\. _The plague_. The plague, which is referred to in this fic happened in 1570–1572.

**Chapter II.**

1\. _Sbiten_ – a hot drink with honey and spices, sometimes had alcohol in it too.

2\. _Tsar’s taverns_. When I was researching this area, I was rather surprised to learn that it wasn’t in fact very easy to get drunk in those days in Moscow. Peasants and common people were not allowed to make their own wine (unlike noblemen), so in 1555 the tsar made an order to open “the tsar’s taverns” in Moscow. For some obscure reason, it wasn’t allowed to eat there, only to drink. And only common people could go to such places (so, Crowley is sort of going against the rules here again, hehe).

The term _vodka_ wasn’t in use in those times yet. The strong alcoholic drink was mostly called just _wine_ or _burning wine_.

3\. _The Library of Ivan the Terrible_. This is one of the famous legends of Moscow. It is said that Ivan had a precious library of rare books – Greek, Latin, Egyptian – which his grandmother, Byzantine princess Sophia, had brought from Constantinople when she married Ivan III. Ivan the IV built a special hiding place for the library, but it was lost, presumably during one of the fires. In 1570, Ivan really invited a priest from Dorpat (in modern-day Estonia), Johannes Wetterman, to translate the books into Russian. But Johannes Wetterman then refused to carry out this long and hard work, apparently afraid that it would keep him in Moscow for too long. It is said that Johannes made a list of the books which were in the library. This list was later found by Professor Dabelov (a scientist, who specialised in civil law and just accidentally came across the list among the documents of the archive of Estonian city called Parnu) and became a sensation. However, there are also different versions about who had really made that list (there’s no sound proof that it was indeed made by Wetterman) and whether it was even real. So, in my version of events, Dabelov’s list was written by Aziraphale and then got into Wetterman’s hands.

4\. My headcanon about the 14th century. I guess we all have agreed that Crowley’s hatred towards the 14th century has something to do with the plague. And, as I personally think that Crowley has always preferred not to deal with unpleasant things if he can, he must have been made to deal with the plague instead of just hiding in some fascinating faraway place.

So, the plague came to Spain in the middle of the 14th century. By the beginning of 1348, it had spread across the peninsula, and in 1350 the king of Castile, Alfonso XI, fell ill and died during the siege of Gibraltar. And Crowley in my story had been by his side during the war – as his counsellor or his favourite. But his real mission was to make the king fall ill and lose the battle.

**Chapter III.**

1\. _Some wild Russian rose_. When I went to the “Old English Court” museum which is a fifteenth–seventeenth century palace in Moscow where the residence of English ambassadors and English Trade Company used to be, I learnt there that some kind of [_dog rose_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosa_canina) was indeed brought by English travellers from Russia to Europe and was called “the Russian Rose” for some time. I thought it quite suited Crowley. :)   
  


2\. “_Who puts a torture chamber next to the royal bedroom?”_ Ivan did, and that’s a fact. His palace in Aleksandrovskaya Sloboda, which has survived, has the same layout of the rooms.

**Chapter IV.**

1\. _The books in Ivan’s Library_. The titles of the books Aziraphale finds in the Library are all mentioned in Dabelov’s list.

The most unusual is, of course, _Gynothaet_, which Crowley is using to play a joke on Aziraphale. While I was reading the article about Dabelov’s list, I came across this title. Its author, Heliothrop, was an unknown, but the historian who commented on the list presumed that the name was misspelled and was meant to be Heliodor – the author of some erotic novels of the fourth century. If that is true, it leaves us with the interesting possibility that Ivan the Terrible had erotic literature in his library among the bibles and historical treatises.

2\. _The raid_. In May 1751, the Crimean Tatar khan Devlet Giray led an army of Tatars and Turks to raid Moscow. At first, he hadn’t intended to invade Moscow, only to rob and ruin some smaller cities, but then he was told by some Russians disloyal to the tsar that the city was weak, beset by famine and mass executions, and largely undefended. During the raid, Devlet Giray burnt down the trading quarters of the city; although he didn’t enter the Kremlin, most of Moscow disappeared in the fire. By the way, because of that event the Red Square was called the Fire for a long time. Some historians who think that the Library of Ivan IV existed suppose it was destroyed in that fire. Ivan the Terrible himself wasn’t in Moscow at the time (as it’s said in the fic), and he didn’t even live there for many years after that.

3\. _“__Why weren’t the bells ringing anymore?”_ An English traveller Jerome Horsey who was present in Moscow during the raid suggested that the fire had started from Ivan the Great Bell Tower then, because of the wind, quickly spread through the trading quarters. So while Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting in the library, they heard the bells of Ivan the Great’s Bell Tower, which were ringing because the Tatars were approaching the city. When Aziraphale looked out of the window some time later, he saw that the bell tower was burning, so that’s why the ringing had stopped; he decided to help with that.

**Chapter V.**

1\. _The first printing houses in Moscow_. There was a line in _A Memory of Eden_: “They printed a picture of that bloody hat on the broadsides for the execution”, so this was one of the things I needed to use in the story. But as I started to do the research for the fic, I realised very quickly that there was a problem here, because in 1571 they weren’t using broadsides for executions, and the only things being printed were religious texts, and even those were only starting to appear. The first Moscow printing house was founded in 1553 and the first book was printed in 1563 (although there are a couple of books that might have been 1-2 years older). Ivan Fyodorov and Pyotr Mstislavets were the first Moscow printers. About 1568, Fyodorov and Mstislavets had to leave Moscow. Some historians say that this was because ignorant Moscow priests were against book printing and were making false accusations against them, and also that the tsar was very suspicious. Others say that the printing house was even burnt down. So although there were still printers in Moscow, you can guess that printing was not developing very quickly. The first secular books appeared in Russia only in the eighteenth century. I didn’t have to stick to the sixteenth century, as the dates of these events aren’t mentioned in _A Memory of Eden_, but I wanted to, as I’d already had this idea of the library adventure and the fire. So I made up Foma, an unknown printer inspired by Crowley and Aziraphale. :)

Besides, although there was no printing then, such a thing as _lubok_ appeared a little bit earlier – in the 17th century. Lubok was ‘a Russian popular print, characterized by simple graphics and narratives derived from literature, religious stories, and popular tales’ and was used to decorate houses. [(Lubok in wikipedia)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lubok) The idea was borrowed from woodcuts and engravings made in Europe in the 15th century. Such engravings were sold in Russia already in the 16th century.

So, I made my Foma one of the first artists in Moscow to think of making something like lubok, as well as printing.

2\. _Nikita, a servant of boyars Lupatovs._ While Foma is an entirely original character, Nikita is a historical (or rather legendary) figure. Although we know close to nothing about him – not even his surname – there is a legend that in the times of Ivan the Terrible there was a man who made himself wooden wings and flew down from the belfry of Aleksandrovskaya Sloboda. Ivan had him executed and burnt the wings. Nikita is often called the Russian Icarus. 

**Epilogue**

_The theatre_. Although I don’t name the theatre or Crowley’s friend here, you’ve all probably guessed that it was young William Shakespeare he was talking to. Shakespeare came to London around 1585–1592, and it is said that at first, he worked at the stables of a theatre before becoming an actor there. Anti-Stratfordians often say that Shakespeare couldn’t have known so much about the history and geography of foreign lands if he had been a mere commoner, and therefore that only a highly educated person could have written those plays. Being a bit of a Stratfordian myself, I think it is perfectly plausible that Crowley (or some other educated gentleman of that time) could have provided him with that information.

The theatre that Crowley attends here is The Rose Theatre which was opened in 1587 and was where Shakespeare’s plays were first staged.

Oh, and by the way: one of the sea routes from England to Russia did, in fact, go through Denmark in those days, so Crowley could have easily heard that old legend of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

  
***  
  


This is it! Thank you for reading!  
  



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